


Unpick the Tapestries of Time

by AraSigyrn



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Time Travel, anon meme fill
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-21
Updated: 2018-11-30
Packaged: 2019-06-18 21:38:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 23
Words: 23,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15495219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AraSigyrn/pseuds/AraSigyrn
Summary: The quest to take Erebor is disrupted by a chance meeting with two impossible wanderers.





	1. Chapter 1

When they find the elf again, he is broken.

 

Dáin's warriors find him amid a hundred slain orcs at the feet of the Ered Lithui and carry him back to Erebor on a litter where Thorin, King Under the Mountain, is told of their finding. The Captain of the troop reports no sign of the dwarf nor the hobbit, head bowed in shame. Thorin sags into the throne and breathes a heavy sigh. His face darkens with grief and his Heir clutches his brother's hand as they bow their heads.

 

Thorin looks at the body, almost lost beneath good Dwarven blankets. The elf breathes but his eyes are closed and his skin is pallid. He is as one already dead and the Kingdom has seen death enough for a thousand lifetimes.  The war is ended but ill feeling lingers still.

 

"What then, are we do with an elf?"

 

Dáin's expression is answer enough but, to the King's surprise, it is Glóin who speaks.

 

"Grant that I may care for him."

 

Immediately the hall is filled with whispers as the dwarves look at him in shock. Glóin's face is pale as the bandages that bind his arm but he is one of the Company and Thorin will not question him.

 

Dáin is more daring. "What care does an elf merit? They came as thieves and traitors. Let him be cast into the woods and be a plague to his kin."

 

"He wears the braids of my son," Glóin says in a voice that rings like well-tempered steel. "I claim him as kin in place and company with the son your warriors failed to return to me."

 

Dáin flinches and Glóin leans heavily on his axe as he straightens.

 

"A true companion was this Greenleaf, my King. He betrayed no-one and he stood by my son's side-"

 

"-Your son is a babe, still clinging to his mother's skirts!" Dáin cries out. "Whoever this Dwarf was, he was a liar."

 

"He was _my son_ ," Glóin snarls. "I know my blood and I could see his mother in him. He carried my axe, he knew his own name and I named him son before the Kings and lords of the five Armies. He is lost but what he leaves, I will guard."

 

"Then it is our order that the elf Greenleaf be entrusted to the care of Lord Glóin," Thorin says and both dwarves falls silent and bow. "And that he have whatever supplies are needful for the elf's care."

 

Glóin takes the elf back to the chambers that he has claimed for his family and closes the door.  As the lanterns are lit and the corridors quiet, Glóin eases his aching body into the chair by the bed. He sets his axe on the floor and rests his clasped hands atop it. He contemplates the elf, over large and underfed, who occupies the bed.

 

The elf is feverish, calling out in his own fussy tongue. Glóin does not know what foe stalks his dreams but it is relentless. The elf cries out, pleads with comrades long lost and plucks weakly at the blankets. Glóin has seen dwarves, grizzled and grim, sleep so; tormented by the fall of their home and the burning.

 

Glóin therefore offers the elf the same watchful protection he once gave to his brothers and cousins. As the night deepens, the elf becomes louder, more desperate and Glóin cannot stop up his ears. Some words, half-remembered, catch in his mind.

 

" _Romu_ ", the sound of horns, spoken in a delirious tone. " _Gorhabor_ ", Glóin knows not, but the elf pales like a ghost and fumbles for the quiver he no longer carries. " _Melidir_ ," friend, not spoken between the Dwarves of Erebor and the Elven folk for many a year.

 

" _ndengin_ , another word that Glóin does not know but the desolation in the elf's voice tears at the barely closed scars in Glóin's breast. " _Gimli_ " needs no translation and if Glóin had doubted for an instant that the elf carried his grown son in his heart, he doubts it no longer.

 

When the dark of the mountain settles and the elf shakes like a babe, Glóin's hand reaches out without his intending any such thing. The elf's eyes, blue as the sky over the mountains, open and stare blindly into the shadows.

 

" _Glóin-adar_ ," the elf gasps and his thin fingers clutch for Glóin's stout hand. "Forgive me, help me. Lost...lost in the East. The eye has seen him, help me! Forgive me."

 

Glóin can find no words of comfort. There are no words in any tongue he knows to ease such desperation. He sets his axe aside and takes the elf's hands. The elf quiets, tears running down his cheeks and Glóin averts his eyes. No elf should weep. That is not how the world is made and the strangeness unsettles him.

 

When the dawn comes, Glóin opens the doors to Óin and the healers and lingers only long enough to be sure the elf is well-tended before he climbs the steps to the ravenloft and sends an inky black bird into the sky to bring him news of his wife and the son who remains to him.

 

He watches until the raven passes from sight. Then he descends once more to take up his thankless vigil and wait - and hope - for the fever to break.


	2. Chapter 2

The elf had been the first they met, idling through the woods around the Carrock. He sang, not loud but the Company was wary and wakeful after the battle with the Wargs. Nori had heard him first, then the wizard and it was perhaps as well that Gandalf had been so swift or the elf might well have died there.

Perhaps. Or perhaps not.

The dwarves had wanted his head, clamouring over Gandalf's more diplomatic council and it had been the hobbit who stepped forward.

"Ah, good morning?"

"A hobbit," the elf replied, tipping his head to stare. "You are a long way from home, Master hobbit."

"Well, yes," Bilbo blinked and blinked again. "Wait, you know where I'm from?"

"The Shire, surely," the elf smiled. "That is the only place in Middle Earth that hobbits are known."

"Uh, yes," Bilbo faltered. "I-yes! That's certainly true. My name is Bilbo Baggins of Bag End."

The elf blinked and looked to Gandalf who was paying more attention to Thorin's rage than this new guest.

"Bilbo Baggins?" The elf repeated. "Of Bag End."

He laughed almost disbelievingly. "And in the company of Mithrandir and a dozen - no, surely thirteen dwarves?"

"Well, yes," Bilbo said a little more warily.

The elf laughed again, shaking his head. "You may call me Greenleaf, Master Baggins, at your service."

Bilbo, flustered, bowed in turn. "And yours."

"Mister Baggins," Thorin stepped forward, sword in his hand. Bilbo stepped back. "What business do elves have in these lands?"

"Merely passing through," the elf looked beyond to Gandalf. "Mithrandir, I must speak with you."

He broke into a torrent of Elvish and Gandalf's expression made Thorin bark a demand that the elf speak in words they all understood.

"He is," Gandalf hesitated. "He is not where he is supposed to be, Thorin Oakenshield, and nothing I have ever read can explain why he should be here."

"We," the elf corrected.

"More elves?" Killi spun to look around and the Company drew their weapons. Bilbo was thrust behind Thorin as the prince brought his blade up.

"Are ye there, laddie?" The voice that came from the rocks ahead drew every eye. Bilbo peered out past Thorin's shoulder and gaped. Coming around the rocks was a dwarf with fiery red beard and finely crafted armour. "Ah, found some friends, have you then?"

"Friends would overstate the matter," the elf smiled. "I fear that they do not trust me, _mellon_."

"Aye, well," the dwarf had keen black eyes and he moved surprisingly quickly. "I can hardly fault them. Y'are an elf, after all."

The elf laughed and the dwarf smiled, looking over at the Company.

"Well, that's Gandalf. I should have known there'd be a Wizard in it. As long as there are no more of those Ents, I'll be content."

"Who are you?" Thorin demanded. "You speak as if you were a dwarf of Erebor but I know every warrior among my people and you...you are a stranger."

Even as the prince spoke, he knew that it was not entirely true. The dwarf was a stranger and yet, hauntingly familiar. The fiery red hair was found only among Erebor's dwarves and the armour too was shaped in as was all the armour made in the forges under the mountain.

"Aye," the dwarf lifted his chin. "I am of Erebor. I must decline to put myself at your service, master dwarf but my name I can freely give."

"Then name yourself," Balin demanded.

"Gimli, son of Gloin."


	3. Chapter 3

Gloin thought often of his son in the days since the Mountain had been retaken.

From the first, Gloin had known this stranger spoke truly. Even in the maddened argument that had erupted after his announcement, Gloin had looked at this strange dwarf and seen his beloved wife in the shape of his eyes and his father's nose over a beard that could have come from no other line.

When Dwalin had reached for his axe, half-hidden by his brother and his king, Gimli had looked straight at him.

"With the greatest of respect, Master Dwalin, and the knowing of your skill," Gimli's hand dropped to his belt. "But this is not a matter for axes."

"He would find himself out-matched," the elf said, too loud to be a whisper.

"It's not polite to say that," Gimli blustered.

"Your mother talked a great deal about your Bearding rite," the elf said, looking down and Gloin saw a flush darken his son's ruddy cheeks.

"When did she tell you that?"

"You were helping your uncle to his bed," the elf said looking thoughtful before a quicksilver smile lit his face. "And making adequate preparations for his waking."

"Well, it would not have been proper to leave him to go alone," Gimli mused. "He won the bet."

"Aye," the elf laughed, oblivious to the seething mass of dwarves around him. "Quite a feat to out-drink both Mithrandir and Lord Celeborn."

"A mighty feat but we've more pressing matters," Gimli turned back to the Company now staring at him, utterly bewildered. "My name, sir dwarf, I have given and I will swear to you on my mother's beard that we mean no ill to any here."

"What trust can I put in the word of dwarf who consorts with Elves," Thorin spat.

Gimli paled and the elf's mild expression cracked. Only a hair's breadth but Balin stepped forward and put a hand on the arm of his king. He was shaken but sure in what he had seen. For an instant, reflected in the eyes of an elf, Balin saw the reflections of Erebor's pyre. Impossible to imagine but Dwarves are practical people and Balin had seen the fear and desperate protective need in the elf.

"What you choose to believe," the elf said, measuring each word through his teeth. "Is a matter for you, Master Oakenshield. If our company is not to your liking, we will depart with our best wishes for your endeavour!"

"Depart?" Gimli looked up at his companion. "Le-Lad, this is Thorin's Great Company."

"I remember," the elf said, fingers anxious on his bowstring.

"This is Thorin, son of Thrain," Gimli said and there was wonder in his voice. "The King Under the Mountain."

Thorin looked sharply at Gimli then at the elf whose eyes were wide.

"I owe him my allegiance," Gimli said, like he was echoing words long spoken. "If there is aught I can do to aid him, I am bound to obey."

The elf paled.


	4. Chapter 4

The healers of Durin's people might lack of the witchery of the elves but their skill is the greatest of all those of Middle Earth and slowly, over the days that follow, the elf is won back from the Gates of Mandos.

It is a grey day, the sky clouded with the promise of rain, when the elf opens his eyes and looks out at the world. He is still weak and struggles to rise beneath the weight of the woolen blanket. Gloin holds back at first but when he offers a rough-skinned hand, the elf clasps it thankfully. He is too feeble to rise from his bed, but he can sit and take water.

He has not wasted away, as would a Dwarf have. Gloin sends the healers away and supports the cup in the elf's hands with his own. There is sorrow in the elf's eyes, a deep and fathomless grief but he nods his thanks and looks to the windows.

"My thanks, _Gloin-ada_ ," he says in a voice that is still raw.

"You called me that before," Gloin observes and elf flinches. "When you were fevered."

"I-I apologize," the elf looks down at his hands. "I did not mean-"

"I have no skill in your Elven tongue," Gloin cuts off the apology. "My own name I do know but..."

He hesitates, a distrustful flicker in his heart and the elf folds his shaking hands into his lap.

"It did not have the sound of an insult," Gloin finishes. It is not quite a question.

"Ada means 'father'," the elf says at last. "In the time we were plucked from-"

He breaks off and raises his hands to rub at his eyes. "You did not approve. You thought Gimli bewitched or worse. It...it hurt him deeply. I should have left, gone back to my father's halls or across the sea. A better Elf would have done so but to be separated from him? My heart withered just at the thought. I could not bear to see him suffer but my selfish heart would not let me sunder that which lay between us."

"I see," Gloin lights his pipe.

"But Gimli," the elf's voice cracks again on the name, "has courage far surpassing my own. He braided my hair and brought me to you and your lady wife both. There was much shouting in your own tongue. I do not know what was said but when I saw you again on the following day...you stood before me and told me frankly that I was and ever would be an Elf and unworthy of your son but that he knew his own heart."

The elf smiles, eyes now turned to the distant past that is Gloin's future. "And you would respect his choice. Then you told me twice more that this did not mean that you cared one jot for me and told me that you would hunt me down with axe in hand if he came to hurt."

"That sounds like me," Gloin acknowledges. There are footsteps in the hall outside. "It is truth, at least."

The elf's smile is pained. " _Gloin-ada_ , is truly there no word of him?"

"Not of Gimli nor the halfling," Gloin says seriously. "And the King will have questions. There are matters here, I think, that will need explaining."

"Let him ask," the elf is looking out the window, a single tear trailing down his cheek. "I will answer."


	5. Chapter 5

Of all the Company, perhaps it should have been anticipated that it would be Thorin's nephews who first approached the strange pair thrust upon them by the whims of the Valar. Dwalin had settled into place just before their new additions, presenting his back. Thorin was more concerned with Gloin to notice when his sister-sons drifted almost innocently to where the elf was keeping his companion's pace.

Gloin was kin, his loyalty to his King and people unquestioned. He had left his wife and young son to answer the King-in-exile’s call. Thorin cannot trust in that tie if the strange Dwarf was indeed who he claimed to be. Gloin's love for his son was fierce as the summer sun and deeper than the roots of the mountain that was their home.

His Company were wary of his dark mood and Oin stayed by his brother's shoulder, muttering darkly to himself.

"So," Filli said, his own brother peering around him. "You are little Gimli, grown to manhood?"

"Aye," Gimli met his gaze easily and there was a grim humour in the twist of his mouth. The elf stepped closer, fingers brushing against his knives. "Though my word is not proof enough. Ai, that a day should have come when my own kin should doubt me so."

The elf looked away but Gimli reached out when he moved to step away.

"And I remember you, Filli son of Dis," Gimli continued and turned his head to the elf. "He taught me to throw an axe."

"You never throw your axe," the elf said with some surprise.

"As I said," Gimli's eyes glittered. "He taught me that only a fool throws a perfectly good axe at his enemy."

There was a shocked instant and then Killi started to laugh. Filli's mouth flapped like a landed fish and he sputtered indignantly. Bilbo Baggins who had been loitering nearby, had to clap his hands over his mouth. Even the elf was half smiling. Filli's mouth snapped shut and he narrowed his eyes at Gimli.

"Tell me, Young Master Gimli," he said loudly, with a gleam in his eye. "Have you told your elf about your archery lessons?"

Killi laughed so hard that he nearly fell, only his brother's sturdy shoulders supporting his weight. Gimli, for the first time since joining the company, reddened with embarrassment like the young Dwarf he truly was. The elf was looking from one to the other of them, eyes bright with curiousity.

"Did you learn with Killi?" Bilbo asked. Gimli goes redder.

"Well, a bow is no weapon for a Dwarf," he started.

"Lies!" Killi jabbed a finger at him. "Filli can shoot, Uncle can shoot, Dwalin can shoot-"

"That's not the point!" Gimli cried, every inch the youngling that Filli remembered and for the rest of the day, they were inseparable. It was clearly his duty to see that Gimli's new friend was fully informed of Gimli's past endeavours.


	6. Chapter 6

Gloin leaves the elf to dress himself and lingers in the corridor, breathing in the smell of the forges and honest work. He will give the elf time to set himself to rights, Gloin thinks. Thorin will not call for him for some time yet. He finds he is still reluctant to leave.

Shaking his head over his own folly, Gloin goes to his own room, still in the process of being cleaned for his wife's arrival. Gloin misses her fiercely and wishes he had her wisdom. She would know what to say to this elf with hollow eyes and the faint imprint of their son in his manner and bearing. She would draw the poison of grief from the elf's wounds as she did for so many of his kin when Erebor's exiles came to their land.

He attends to his own appearance, fingering the beads and clasps of his braids. The elf's Gimli had worn no such decorations and Gloin had intended to craft suitable ornaments once the hoard had been reclaimed and his son was duly acknowledged by Durin's heir. His son is acknowledged but Gloin's carefully crafted beads will not adorn his beard and braids. Gloin fingers the beads and puts them into his pocket.

The elf is dressed, sitting on the edge of his bed. The long fall of his hair has been brushed out but the narrow, intricate braids have not been touched. They have been carefully fastened so they might not unravel and a lump comes to Gloin's throat at the sight.

"Can ye walk, lad?" he asks gruffly.

"Not with any great speed," the elf says. "I will try my best."

He needs Gloin's hand to get to his feet and his gait is slow and careful as if he feels ever one of his countless years. Gloin keeps pace with him and has to bite his tongue on the automatic words of encouragement that spring to his lips. They are halfway down the stairs when the cries of the sentries come to their ears.

"The Wizard! Gandalf is come!" Gloin hears the cry and the groan as the great gates are open. The voices of his kin echo from a dozen watch points and the elf seizes his hand.

"Gloin-ada, I hear Gandalf's name?"

"Aye, lad," Gloin pats his hand. "The Wizard is come."

"And come in great haste," Oin has come down the stairs behind him. "His horse all a lather. They say he's come from the East and he has not come alone."

"Not alone?" Gloin bawls into his brother's ear-trumpet. "Who has come?"

"Elves," Oin scowls. "All of them in a tizzy but there's joy in them or I'm blinder than a mole!"

"From the East," the elf sways and would have fallen if Gloin and his brothers were not blessed with good reflexes. The elf clings to them and laughs, tears flowing freely down his cheeks. Gloin flounders, utterly perplexed and meets his brother's eye.

"Best not to linger where all the world can see," is Oin's ever-practical advice. "Come on, lad."

They get him calmed and Gloin offers the use of his handkerchief to clean away the tears. The elf follows them as a babe follows his mother and Gloin is worried. He and Oin steady him and make for the audience chamber with best speed. They are nearly there when a hated voice rings out, loud enough to fill the mountain halls. Thranduil, King of Mirkwood stands in the great hall of Erebor and points towards the elf as his face contorts with disbelief.

" _Legolas!_ "


	7. Chapter 7

The young princes kept company with their old playmate and his unusual companion for the rest of the day. There was no doubt that they found no falsehood in this strange Dwarf and by the time Thorin ordered a camp made, Fili and Kili were firmly convinced that he was who he claimed to be. The elf was more warily tolerated but he did not seem concerned with his standing in the eyes of the other Dwarves.

By the evening, Ori and their burglar had drifted back to join the lively little group. Dwalin caught Nori's eye and they fell back a few steps to put themselves alongside the Company, halfway between their seething king and the source of his frustrations. It gave him a clear view of the Wizard's frustration; the son of Gloin was absorbed by his cousins and the elf had not left more than a step between them since the party had set forth. No chance to babble away in the slippery tongue of the pointy-eared bastards.

Thorin called the wizard forward and Gandalf stumped forward, muttering darkly to himself and Dwalin stretched his ears to hear what was passing between them.

"Have they spoken to you of their purpose?" Thorin demanded.

"No more than they have told you, Master Oakenshield," Gandalf said testily.

"What is their purpose here?" Dori demanded.

"Why is the dwarf consorting with an elf?" Balin's face was creased into a scowl and Dwalin's eyes turned to Gloin who was growling into his beard. "Can we trust the word of such a dwarf?"

"I will not hear my family defamed so!" Gloin roared and was hushed rapidly by the dwarves around him before his rage could draw unwanted attention.

"I meant no offence to your kin, Master Gloin," Balin said hastily. Dwalin was pleased to see that his brother's silver tongue did not fail him. "I am merely concerned that the elf has bewitched him. He is not acting as a Dwarf would."

"On the contrary, Master Balin," Gandalf's staff thumped down with unnecessary force. "Young Gimli is behaving as befits a son of such a noble line."

"You believe them then," Thorin said darkly.

"The Elf is known to me," Gandalf looked back. "And the company he keeps is as strange to him as Gimli's choices seem to you. There is old pain in their eyes and there is a lingering taste of Magic about them. I can sense no falsehood in what they have claimed."

More uproar, more arguing broke out but when they made camp, the elf and the Dwarf were with them still and the Dwarf wrapped himself in his cloak amide the roots of the trees. The Elf sat with his back to the tree, one hand on his companion's shoulder and the other on the strung bow on his lap. He did not sleep that Dwalin saw and when he woke the next morning, his company were sleeping still but the elf watched with cool eyes and an arrow notched on his bow.

"You didnae sleep," Dwalin challenged. He could read the signs of the night in the way the unlikely pair were settled; if the elf had quit his watch for even long enough to make water, Dwalin was a beardless hobbit! He disliked the elf but that did not make him a fool. There was a fierce, ravaging emotion burning behind those sky-coloured eyes. The elf clung to his dwarf as Dwalin had clung to his brother in the long days after Moria.

"My people do not need sleep as Dwarves and Hobbits do," the elf lifted his chin. "Another watching is no peril to the Company."

"I would not trust my life to an elf," Dwalin spat on the ground between them.

"I have no care for your life, Master Dwalin," the elf said, voice as harsh as Thorin's rage. "Nor for your treasures or your quest. I am here because Gimli will not leave his kin nor see them go into danger but he must go with them. He would grieve to see any of the Company fall and I will see no grief added to his shoulders. What he asks of me, I will see done, no matter the cost."

Dwalin grunted, sitting back on his heels. "Aye then. As long as we understand each other."

And then Gimli stirred and brought Thorin's sister-sons awake and that was the end of the conversation.


	8. Chapter 8

There is uproar; the Elven King shouts, all the decorum and poise of his race abandoned in his fury. Gloin sees the way the elf who wears his son's braids looks away, the tightening of his lip and the flash of pain in his eyes. Dwarves are whole-hearted in everything they feel and he will not have Thranduil of all Elves upsetting his son's elf.

He plants his stocky form between the two and answers Thranduil's shrill Elvish demands with good earthy Khuzdul. It is perhaps for the best that neither understands the precise words but volume and tone are clue enough. The argument draws the Dwarves and Elves and might have escalated even to open combat if Oin had not spoken up.

"STOP BAWLING, THE PAIR OF YOU!" Gloin's brother has a hearty set of lungs when he chooses to use them. "Can you not see that you're upsetting the laddie?"

The elf sways and Gloin takes a step back, putting his shoulder in reach of a long-fingered hand. The Dwarves of Erebor, many of them his kin, form a solid wall between Gloin and the furious Elf King. Oin's elbow drives the breath from his lungs and Gloin recalls his manners with great reluctance. He will not shame his King before the Wizard and the Elves of Rivendell like a beardless boy.

"King Thorin has called for the elf to explain himself," Gloin says. "If it is his will, you will hear the answers to whatever questions have scattered your wits and your manners alike. Good day to you, Master Elf!"

Oin is already tugging away the elf and faced by a full troop of Erebor's sons, Thranduil has no choice but to yield. The Elf King is drawn back by his own guards, one whispering urgently in his ear. Gloin watches them until they are pushed back around the curve of the tunnel before hurrying to rejoin his brother.

"You havenae eaten," Oin is saying when Gloin finds them in a side room with two of his distanct cousins watching the door. "You're naught but skin and bones, laddie!"

"I will be well, thank you, _Oin-tôr-ada_ ," the elf is shaking. Barely noticeable, a Man would not see it at all but Dwarves are alert to every tremor in their surroundings. " _Gloin-ada_ , do you still have Gimli's pack?"

"Aye," Gloin ignores his bother's muttering. Oin's hands are gentler than his gruff tone would suggest and he is prone to fussing. His son's baggage, all but the axes and the armour, is where it was left during the madness of battle. "It hasnae been touched. He left it knotted-"

"He said he would," the elf's fleeting smile is bittersweet. "But there is something that Gandalf must see. A book. It was in the leather saddle bag."

"I will fetch it for him," Gloin nods and the elf loses some intangible tension, sagging back against the wall.

"You'll have your braids out," Oin snaps, catching him before he can fall. "Fool of an elf!"

Gloin takes the beads from his pocket, pressing them into his brother's hand before he takes himself to his own rooms where his son's packs were brought when no sign of him could be found in the whole Mountain. Gloin opens only the leather saddle bag and finds a book, just as the elf said. It has a cover of well-tanned red leather and binding too uneven to be of Dwarven or Elvish make. Gloin opens the cover and struggles over the inelegant scrawl of Westron letters. His eyes go wide as he kens their meaning.

"Gandalf," he shouts at the guards as he comes striding down the stairs. "Where is he?"

He is pointed to the audience chambers and throws the doors open, startling those within and drawing the ire of his King. Gloin makes a hasty reverence towards the throne as he hurries to Gandalf's side.

"Y'must see this, Wizard," he says before any can speak. "The elf bid me fetch it to you, it was left by my son."

Frowning, Gandalf opens the book. His lips move as he reads and his eyes widen. He flips the pages, eyes moving rapidly and his staff falls unnoticed to the ground.

"I would know what book can so enthrall a Wizard," King Thorin's voice is low and dangerous. "When there are matters more pressing."

"I do not recognize the book," Elrond of Rivendell says, leaning a little closer. "What is it called?"

"It is called," Gandalf says heavily. "'There and Back Again: A Hobbit's Tale' by Bilbo Baggins and speaks to the heart of the matter before us."


	9. Chapter 9

It was in Mirkwood that the elf abandoned them.

The precise moment was impossible to know – had he slipped away when the spiders came or waited until his treacherous kin fell on them? Had this been his plan all along? To deliver them into the hands of the Elf King who had failed to honour their ancient alliance so singularly in Erebor's greatest need? The Company muttered into their beards and nodded darkly.

Thorin did not notice, too distracted by his own rage. The other Dwarves did not speak of it, for Gimli had proven himself many times over in battle with the spiders and even Dwalin was not willing to trust Gimli had not inherited his father's temper to pair with his mother's skill. They left him instead to his own thoughts, wary of the grim expression on his face.

It was only the Burglar who ventured to approach, being as he was a Hobbit and a kindly soul.

"Er, excuse me? Master Gimli?"

"Aye, Master Baggins," the Dwarf looked over at him. "How can I be of service?"

Bilbo peered ahead at where the other Dwarves were walking. Killi and Filli were peering back with concerned eyes every other step. Balin had taken on the task of shepharding them along so they would not bother their cousin. He was older and more used to the treachery of Elves. It was better, in Balin's eyes, to give the lad some time to think it through in as much privacy as could be afforded under the circumstances.

"I have," Bilbo lowered his voice. "I have a message for you."

"A message?" Gimli rumbled and the Hobbit found himself the subject of a particularly piercing gaze. He swallowed for there was a bottomless depth to those dark eyes that showed how different Gimli was to his kin. Thorin's people were rock, veined through with iron ore. Gimli was steel, forged and tempered and Bilbo wondered again what impossible future events had shaped the warrior before him from the beloved child of Gloin's tales.

"He said," Bilbo inched closer and dropped his voice to the barest whisper. "He said I should only speak of it to you."

"Did he now?" the Dwarf rumbled, the haft of his axe striking the earth in time with his steps. He hummed to himself and Bilbo was relieved to be free of the weight of those glinting black eyes. He had been surprised, when the elf found him through the ring's enchantments. He had no time to speak of it to Thorin, so much had happened so swiftly and there had been only that moment.

Bilbo has had more time to think than he has had to do anything else over the last month and he remembered the battle with the spiders in great detail. Every word, every act enshrined in his memories but no matter how he tried, Bilbo could not understand how Gimli, so fierce and fearless, had been taken by Elves where even the spiders had failed. He and his elf had fought like heroes of old, as perfectly matched as an arrow and bow and Bilbo remembered the way the elf had looked on Gimli with soft eyes.

"Well, laddie?" Gimli's deep voice interrupted his thoughts and Bilbo startled. "A message you said?"

"He said to tell you," Bilbo licked his lips. "Eighty three."

He expected that Gimli would demand further explanation as Bilbo had and braced himself for the fury that must come. The elf had added only a smile to the number before he was gone, vanished into the woods as Bilbo vanished under the ring's spell.

Gimli lifted his head, surprise widening his eyes and did something wholly unexpected.

He laughed.

"Eighty-three?" Gimli mused as Bilbo tried not to trip over his own feet in shock. "A respectable number, very respectable indeed. I thank you, Master Baggins, for bringing me such fine news."

He bowed and Bilbo, flummoxed and stunned, tried to bow back and would have fallen if Gimli had not steadied him. Gimli's expression sobered, resolve replacing fond amusement and Bilbo swallowed again.

"And now, Master Baggins, let us talk, you and I, for there is much that you need to know and not much time." Gimli looked ahead to the looming mountain and shook his head. "Not much time and much to do."


	10. Chapter 10

Gandalf and Lord Elrond bend their heads over the book, murmuring in Elvish. Oin mutters sourly but keeps his place beside his brother and his patient. The elf keeps his head high but so close, Gloin can feel him trembling under the strain. King Thorin's heirs have found their way to their uncle's side where they watch with wide eyes but thankfully silent voices. They are interrupted by Thranduil who storms back into the throne room and Gloin's hands itch for his axes.

He is still shouting, still in Elvish and Gloin growls. He does not care for the tone of the words. The elf moves as through to step forward but Oin puts a hand out.

"Let the King manage it," he advises, more to Gloin than the elf. "'Tis his throne room."

King Thorin proves himself capable to the task, shouting down the Elven king as Gandalf and his Elven fellow try to keep the peace. Frustration drives Thranduil into Westron for what Thorin was taught, by his grandfather long years before, of Elvish is long forgotten and neither of the wise ones are willing to translate his invective.

"What have you done!? There will be war over this, King Under the Mountains!"

Another uproar as Elrond pleads with his cousin for calm and Gandalf prudently relocates to impede the way between the two kings. A year past and Thorin would already have drawn Orchrist and the Elven King would be testing his steel against every Dwarven warrior in Erebor. A King without a throne can be more impetuous than a King with a broken kingdom to restore.

So King Thorin turns his dark gaze from the King of Mirkwood to where the elf stands and the weight of that gaze is enough to silence even Thranduil.

"Explain."

The elf's fingers brush against Gloin's shoulder as he stands straight under that weighty regard. Only the faint chime of the beads that hold his braids in place betray his weakness and there is a sense about him of an arduous task nearly completed that puts Gloin in mind of a smith tempering the blade of a sword and setting it to the whetstone for its final edge.

"My name," the elf begins, "is Legolas Thranduilion. I was a prince of my people."

Thranduil lets out a mournful cry at the deliberate past tense and Gloin feels the tension in his brother.

"Some sixty years past, as the time has passed for me," the elf says, picking his words with care. "There came into my father's lands a Company of Dwarves who came to reclaim Erebor. They brought with them a Hobbit named Bilbo Baggins though we did not meet then for he came shrouded in magic and stole away his companions. His tale, Mithrandir and Lord Elrond have read but it is a tale that ends very differently for you, Thorin son of Thrain."

Oin has his ear trumpet pressed to his ear, leaning closer though to Gloin's ears, the elf's voice rings like a bell. The elf addresses Thorin as if there is no other in the room.

"In the past as I lived it, your madness was not tempered by wisdom and as the gold fever spread like a plague through your Company," the elf closes his eyes for a second. "You died from wounds taken in the Battle of Five Armies and the grief that came from the loss of both your heirs to the arrows of the Goblins."

Thorin pales and his eyes snap to Gandalf. The Wizard's sorrowful expression is answer enough. In the shadows by his throne, Fili and Kili press themselves together and watch the elf with wide eyes.

"Bilbo Baggins returns to the Shire and dwells in grief and solitude for sixty years," the elf's voice is compassionate.

"What happened," Thorin demands, his voice ragged with shock. "How was this Fate turned aside?"

"I know only my part," the elf swallows and the glow of his skin dims. "There was not time for him to tell me but the sagas written by your folk were more precise than Mister Baggins' writings. He knew the eddas by heart and sang them ever on the eve of battle in honour of the princes he had called kin and friend. He knew how death would find you and he bid me take a score of archers to the Western hills and slay every Warg that tried to pass. There was more but that was done by his hand and I do not know his plan."

"Who is this warrior of whom you speak?" Lord Elrond wonders.

The elf's voice is proud as he answers. "Gimli, son of Gloin, Elf Friend and my beloved."


	11. Chapter 11

Erebor's wealth, the dragon's stolen treasure, was beyond description.

Fili, oldest of those who had never seen Erebor in her prime, remembered the lean years of his early childhood when his kin had slaved to afford a loaf of farmer's bread. The least of the treasures under his feet would have bought a bakery a thousand times over. He understood for the first time why his mother and uncle had spoken so reverently of their lost home.

Here, in a hall crafted by his ancestors, Fili felt his own insignificance against the grandeur of his people. It was a heady feeling and one that left him strangely humbled. He walked through the caverns and did not see the gold for the beautifully carved halls that held it. This would be his kingdom when his uncle departed for Durin's halls, many years hence.

Fili roamed the halls alone, even Kili had abandoned his company in favour of pawing through the dragon's spoils. Fili heard his voice from time to time when a particularly fine treasure caught his eye. Fili wore a coronet, a pretty thing of gold and mithril, that his magpie brother had brought to him before the lure of the gold overwhelmed him and it felt both weightless and too heavy to bear.

Nori looked up from where he was counting a pile of coins larger than himself and his two brothers combined and bowed deeply.

Fili acknowledged the reverence though it pained him. His companions, once friends forged in the trials they had overcome to reach the Lonely Mountain, were drawing away as Fili's once-hollow title took on the weight of their reclaimed home.

He walked on, passing Ori who was so enthralled by a finely crafted scribe's desk that he did not see Fili and Dori who was polishing the tarnish from exquisite lamps sculpted in the shape of great eagles like those who had plucked them from the Defiler's grasp. The older Dwarf was muttering darkly about the laziness of dragons and sweat beaded on his brow as he bent to the task.

Oin and Gloin were in the armoury, taking an inventory of the weapons and armour. Oin fingered the hanging mail and named each for its owner with a practised surety. Gloin was testing the edge of a wicked sharp axe that cut through the stone as easily as if it were dry, brittle wood.

"A handsweight of mithril to the steel or I'll shave my beard," he declared to his brother. "A master's work!"

"Aye, aye," Oin nodded and bowed deeply as Fili paused in the doorway. "A good morning to you, my Prince."

"And you," Fili inclined his head. "How stands the tally?"

"We have weapons enough to finish the wyrm a dozen times over, if the scaly beast shows his nose at our door," Oin boasted. Fili looked on the rack of mail and arms, all the owners long slain by the same dragon and felt doubt in his heart. He inclined his head and left his kin to gloat over their prizes.

By the time he found his way back to where he had started, Fili had seen all his uncle's Company but one at work among the hoard. Gimli, his friend and cousin from times far into the future, was nowhere among the piles of gold. Fili had not seen him since their burglar had opened the door and called them into Erebor's halls to hide from the dragon's wrath.

Gimli had been a steadfast friend since their meeting and Fili suddenly felt the need for his cousin's counsel and support. He set off in search of the other Dwarf with some relief at having a purpose greater than aimless wandering.

It took a considerable time before his search brought him to the walls. Gimli was not alone; the Company's burglar, red-faced and agitated, stood before him. Fili paused in the shadow of the stairs. Gimli was leaning on his axe as if wearied far beyond his years as the hobbit thrust a book against his chest.

"You say you need my help, Master Dwarf," the hobbit said, words ringing out in the stillness of the tower. "Well, that's my price. I will put myself entirely at your service once it is done but I will not stir one step before I am sure that they are safe!"

Fili hid himself in the shadows as Bilbo, eyes red and chin up, vanished into Erebor's depths. He looked after the hobbit, burningly curious to know what argument had roused their burglar into an almost Dwarvish rage and left Gimli with the sorrow of one bereaved bowing his shoulders.


	12. Chapter 12

The elf-Legolas, Gloin corrects himself-stands firm in the face of the storm his words have unleashed. Gloin fancies there is an echo of his lost son in the steadfast stance. Gloin's foreknowledge lets him watch the reactions of the wise ones gathered around his King. Gandalf looks grim and only somewhat surprised. Elrond purses his lips as he had over the ruin the Company left in his home.

Thranduil looks as if he has taken a mortal blow and the alien strangeness of him does nothing to hide the horror. Gloin's first instinct is to take offense. He has a fine son; the match to any Elfling prince! But for all Thranduil's cunning, there is a deep terror in his eyes that resonates strangely. The Elf-king is babbling again and Legolas winces very slightly. His hand tightens on Gloin's shoulder and Gloin wishes he had the kenning of Elvish.

King Thorin saves him from such need, half-rising in his throne to roar over the Elf-king's rambling. "Speak in words we can all understand or be silent!"

"He fades!" Thranduil half-shouts and Elrond is not the only one who startles. "You would have me pretend that I care for these wild tales when my son stands before me with Time stealing him away in seconds!"

"What madness is he babbling about?" Oin demands in what he probably intended as a whisper.

"Elves and Dwarves have more in common that either of you would admit," Gandalf says testily, "both love only once and without reservation."

He pauses and his eyes are sad as he looks on the elf still standing at Gloin's shoulder. "But Dwarves are a hardier folk. A Dwarf who loses their Heart will take no other in their place but they will endure as do the rocks from which they were born. An elf who loses their beloved..."

The implication is clear and both Gloin and his brother turn to the elf. He is paler than the starlight but there is peace in his eyes.

"Is it true?" Fili asks.

"It is," Legolas says simply. "A heavy price but cheap against the treasure that was mine."

Thranduil says something choked in his own tongue but before King Thorin can demand a translation, Legolas replies in Westron tongue.

"I have lived more, these two years with Gimli by my side, than I have lived in all the empty centuries before," his smile is bittersweet. "I did not think to see beauty in a Dwarf nor dream of the depth of his song but for these few months, I have seen a world that I could not have imagined if I lived until the End of the world."

Thranduil looks ashen and Legolas squares his shoulders.

"It could be said with truth that the manner in which Gimli and I became friends would make a fine tale," Legolas says and if his fingers were not digging so sharply into his shoulder, Gloin might think him serene. "But it is not important to the matter which troubles you."

"I would hear that tale," Kili tells his brother, loud in the silence. "Gimli and an elf? I'd give a bag of gold to hear how that came to pass!"

The close kinship between King Thorin and his heir is clearly evident in their matching expressions. The youngest prince of Erebor would be well-advised, Gloin thinks, to leave diplomacy to his elder brother but there's no denying that Gloin too has wondered...

"I would very much like to know what tale could render such a tale unimportant," Elrond says slowly. Thranduil glares at him. "Such a thing has not happened in any Age."

"That records speak of," Gandalf says and both Elves turn wide eyes on him. "But that too is beside the matter, I think."

Legolas inclines his head. "There is a greater tale to be told and to my sorrow, only I remain to tell it. I have not my beloved's gift for poetry-"

The elf's eyes close as if in pain. No-one speaks.

"Yet he was always so slow to tell the full tale of his own deeds," Legolas continues, "so perhaps it is as well that I am the one to tell this story."

King Thorin leans forward from his throne, his nephews edging forward with ears pricked and the Elves are intent on his every word. Even Gandalf is silent. The breath the elf takes to begin his tale sounds like a hurricane in the stillness.

"This is the tale," Legolas says proudly. "Of the One Ring, Bane of Isildur and how it was twice destroyed and the part Gimli and I took in our shared past and the future that will never come."


	13. Chapter 13

The Halfing had betrayed them, there were armies at the doors and Gimli son of Gloin stood under his King's brooding gaze. The older members of the Company, including Gimli's own father, stood by their King and only Fili, Kili and Ori took their fellow's side.

"The elf betrayed us, the halfling betrays us," Thorin said in a deep voice. "Will you betray us too?"

"I am a Dwarf of the line of Durin," Gimli said proudly with his head held high. "My allegiance is to the King Under the Mountain. While I live, I will serve you to the best of my ability."

Thorin watched him through eyes shadowed with madness and Gimli bore his King's gaze stoically. Indeed, he seemed grieved rather than angered by his King's distrust and he bowed gravely when Thorin waved him away. He went back to sit at the Watchtower where Fili found him later.

"He is not usually so..." the young prince struggled for words.

"No," Gimli said solemnly. "The gold has him in thrall. I feared this day and all I have done is not enough to hold it at bay."

He sighed and for the first time, Fili saw the little cousin who had wanted so fiercely to come on the quest only to be left looking after them with wet eyes. Gimli sighed and shouldered his axe. The Dwarf from years hence opened dry eyes to look upon the broken Gates.

"Naught to do then but bear what comes and stem Fate's tide," he said as if to himself and turned to face Fili. "Lad..."

Fili opened his mouth to protest but Gimli was looking past him. When Fili turned to follow his gaze, he saw Kili hesitating on the cusp of the shadowy stairs. Being called 'lad' by Gimli straightened his spine in outrage but the solemn look in Gimli's eyes curbed his tongue.

"Kili," Gimli caught the younger prince's arm. "Ye must swear to me, do not let your brother out of your sight. Not for a second, not for a blink, ye ken?"

"I wouldn't-!" Kili started but Gimli shook the arm in his grasp.

"There is war coming. A great and terrible battle beyond the skirmish that Thorin prepares for," Gimli said and there was an urgency in his voice that compelled belief. "If you believe no word I have ever spoken or will speak to you in future, Kili of Durin's line, believe me when I say that if your brother passes from your sight in the battle before us, he will fall."

Kili went pale and Fili would have offered assurances but there was a ring of truth in Gimli's words that sounded like the bell in the deep and shook the Prince Under the Mountain to his core. He reached for his brother's hand, clutched it to him and felt Kili's more-ferverent grip as his brother crowded closer until not even air separated them.

Gimli looked on them and smiled but it was a sad smile.

"Sons of Vili," he hailed them. "Heirs to Thorin, King Under the Mountain, and hope to the folk of Durin. Let it be that you stand together and you will fear no darkness nor ork blade. Only keep your brother close to your right hand and you will prevail."

"And where will you be?" Fili asked. He had a sense of widening distance; as if Gimli was already turning his face towards some unfathomably distant point.

"Where I swore to be," Gimli said as he shouldered his axe and straightened to his full height. "In the service of my king."


	14. Chapter 14

"-and so Bilbo Baggins returned to the Shire, greater in wisdom, riches and sorrow that he had ever thought to be," Legolas finishes the tale of their quest in the past that is not and Gloin fears that the lad will fall. He does not move nor betray the tightening grip on his shoulder by even the barest flicker of expression.

"What happened to him?" King Thorin demands harshly.

"He took neither wife nor lover," Legolas says after a moment's thought. "He wrote the book Mithrandir holds and became a goodly scholar. And in his later days, he took in a cousin orphaned by mischance and raised the lad as his son. Frodo Baggins, who was our companion on the quest for the ring."

Legolas pauses and Thorin's grip on the arms of his grandfather's throne tightens. "Was he happy?"

Again, Legolas considers his answer.

"As much as could be expected. He carried the grief of Erebor's loss to the end of his days and the burden of carrying the ring wearied him greatly. He lived to a great age for a hobbit, well past his first century and ailed only after he willingly gave up the ring, the only Ringbearer to achieve such a feat in its history."

"It kept him from becoming frail though he aged in his heart and his will," Legolas says and Gloin notes the tears that glitter in Gandalf's eyes. The Wizard looks aged and pained beyond his years. So did Gloin's kin look when they came to Ered Luin after Smaug's devastation. Not wishing to embarrass the Wizard, Gloin looks away. "And though he remained in the Shire until Frodo was grown, his heart turned to the world beyond."

Legolas looks to Gandalf. "You told me, in Lothlorien once that Bilbo had hoped to see mountains again and that it was your belief that he wished to journey to the Lonely Mountains one last time."

"Did he?" Fili asks, stepping forward from the shadow of the throne. He makes a striking contrast the wan Elf prince, his beard a richer, living gold against the moonshine that fades in Legolas' braids.

Legolas shakes his head sadly. "He met with Gloin- _ada_ in Rivendell for the Great Council nearly a full year later but free of the Ring's influence, age found him and his strength failed him within a league of Rivendell. Lord Elrond took him into his household and prized him highly."

"If the half of what you say is true," Elrond says, clearing his throat. "Bilbo Baggins would have been a thousand times welcome in my halls." 

"And so the Ring passed to Frodo," Legolas continues before he can be interrupted again. "With the rest of Bilbo's possessions. Mithrandir had come to suspect that the Ring was more than the trinket he had first thought it. He went forth to seek a greater understanding and found what he sought in the records of Isildur, King of Gondor." 

Legolas looks away from Gandalf. "The power of Sauron was waxing. The Greenwood was made Mirkwood in truth. I and my kin went forth in great numbers when we ventured forth at all. Dain who was King Under the Mountain closed his gates against the strangers who came forth in search of 'a Baggins' and 'a Shire'. He and my father sent messengers back and forth and Dale became a city haunted by terror and fear. We sent word by the Rangers to Gandalf." 

"But Gandalf was in Gondor," Kili objects. "Rangers don't go to Gondor." 

"They will if the cause is grim enough," Legolas says harshly. He continues, his voice as strong as his will can make it. He speaks of the creature Gollum, the great upswelling of orks and how the spiders of Mirkwood had strangled the forest in their webs. 

He is slower to talk of Gollum's escape, the vain hunt for him and his eyes, Gloin notes, flicker towards his father. 

"Father was gravely wounded," Legolas says slowly and there is a great deal unspoken in the pause between words. "We feared for him." 

His grip threatens to break Gloin's shoulder but Gloin only glances up to the lad's shadowed eyes. If it will some of the heartache that tears at the elf, well, Gloin can weather a few bruises. Legolas continues in a rush, sketching out the trail of events that brought about the great Council. 

"Dain Ironfoot sent those most trusted in the matter," Legolas declares. "All those of the Company of Thorin Oakenshield who could be spared. He did Lord Elrond this honour but it meant that our parties set forth separately and saw nothing of each other until we arrived in Rivendell. Erebor's people arrived before us, travelling by ways that only the Dwarven folk know. Most sent were venerable Elders," Legolas half-bows to Oin who grumbles darkly but looks pleased all the same. "But there was one brash young Dwarf who set no curb on his tongue and was fearless in his pride." 

Legolas bows his head. The tears in his eyes do not diminish the fondness of his smile and he is lost for a moment in contemplation of that long past meeting. 

"I thought him arrogant and crude," Legolas confesses. "He did not care for Elves and made no secret of it and it rankled me. He provoked me to thoughtless action so easily and so swiftly..." 

Gloin and his brother exchange a knowing look; Gloin is reminded of his own tempestuous courtship and strokes his beard to hide a fond smile of his own. Gimli - the Gimli who is even now on the road to Erebor - is still a child but his temper shows promise. Gloin needs no imagination to picture how his son will grow into a fine, fierce Dwarf as was Gloin and his father and his father before. 

"When the Ring was shown to us for the first time," Legolas continues. "I...I am no poet nor a Wizard to put the revulsion of it into words and yet there was a terrible temptation to take the Ring and hoard it away. It struck us mute with the power of that lust." 

Gandalf's weathered face has drawn into a frown and he leans on his staff as heavily as if he is in truth the aged Man he appears to be. 

"Only one did not flinch," Legolas says in fond exasperation. "Gimli struck it with his axe." 

"The Ring would not be so easily destroyed," Elrond objects. 

"It was not," Legolas says immediately. "It was wholly unharmed. Gimli's axe, alas, did not fare so well. It was shattered by the Ring's power." 

"It was destroyed beyond even Dwarven skill to repair, though I believe Lord Elrond offered the use of his forge for the attempt." A smile unlike anything Gloin has ever seen on an Elf's face before steals across his face. "Gimli spent the first weeks of our quest loudly lamenting its loss. If he had not been granted his father's axe in place of it, I shudder to think how loud his complaints would have been." 

Gloin's chest puffs up with pride. He had known the axe the elder Gimli carries for his own but he had not imagined so grand a reason for it to have come to Gimli. Oin elbows him but his brother's beard does nothing to hide the proud expression beaming forth. Fili and Kili are attempting to hide their giggles at the wholly expected description of their old playmate. 

"I thought myself very offended by his manner," Legolas continues in a sweeter, softer tone. "I thought it was dislike that drew my eye to him as we journeyed into the East but now that I look back, I think rather it was fascination from the very first. He is a fiery creature but with a heart as great as his mountain home. Now, the only thing that I wonder is that it took so long for me to realize what my heart knew from the first." 


	15. Chapter 15

_"If your brother passes from your sight, he will **fall**."_

The words of his old friend, once-playmate and now solid ally haunted Kili from the moment the gold-fever cleared from his uncle's eyes and he rallied his company to face the war they had brought down on themselves. Kili has been a burr in his brother's side from the moment they saw the massed armies beyond their gates. Fili tolerated his fussing and that of all things made Kili's heart shrivel in his chest.

His brother believed Gimli. Fili, who saw more clearly than any of them in the light of Smaug's stolen riches, had heard Gimli's warning and Fili believed. What Fili believed, Kili accepted as truth. Fili had not told their uncle, fearing his madness and this too, Kili respected. So, Kili chewed his lip, kept his bow to hand and never let his brother pass from his sight.

When the orks came, a foul black sea of them, Kili's heart quailed. There were so many and more coming with every minute. Wargs and foul beasts out of the nightmares of a child slavered for blood.

"Chin up, laddie," Gimli poked him solidly in the shoulder and Kili spun to look down at him, catching Fili's sleeve to keep his brother safely close.

"There are so many," Kili said and saw his dread mirrored in the grim faces of the Company. Dwalin's face was dark, Balin's grieved and he saw that their elders had no faith that any would survive. "We are going to our deaths!"

Gimli's flinch was so slight that Kili did not notice it, though Fili sucked in a surprised breath. Gimli cuffed Kili again, less gently and Kili snarled at him. Fear flared briefly as anger and only Fili's steady presence held him back.

"We are going to war," Gimli corrected, raising his voice to fill the hallway where the Company made ready to go forth. "We go to defend our homes and honour old allegiances. We go to slay those who think to bring their filth into our home, to pollute and despoil our halls and corrupt our home beyond salvation. We are Durin's folk and we endure, Kili. They are orks, mindless brutes and beasts. We are their betters."

His words echoed in the hallway and Kili saw he had the Company's full attention.

"They come to destroy us," Gimli said in a ringing voice. "They believe that Erebor's folk can be broken and lost to time and memory. They are mistaken. Fourteen Dwarves against the spawn of Gundabad? I will take those odds, Kili son of Vili."

"Aye," Bofur shouldered his mattock. "The lad's right. No stinking ork is going to trample me!"

There was a rumble of agreement and Kili's comrades raised their heads with new light shining in their eyes. Fili stepped forward, clapping hands to both their shoulders.

"Aye," he said. "They will speak of this day in songs sung ten thousand years hence. They will say that we stood. They will say that we prevailed!"

There was a cheer and the Company brandished their weapons high. Thorin, magnificently clad in the armour that had been his father's and grandfather's before them, stepped out and there was pride in his eyes as he took in his Company.

"KHAZAD! KHAZAD! KAZAD AI-MENU!" The Dwarves cried in one voice as Thorin raised Orcrist aloft and for a moment, Kili believed that they could win.

Then they went forth and the battle swallowed the Company.

It was madness. A hell of blood and orks. Even with his fear as a goad, Kili could barely keep within arms reach of his brother. His quiver of arrows was quickly exhausted and he had to snatch up the crude ork arrows from the bodies of the slain while Fili laid about them with his swords, voice raised in a defiant cry that made Kili's heart leap in his chest.

Gimli's deeper roar sounded from nearby, close to where Thorin was a shining circle of axe and sword. They were hard-pressed, Thorin's crown marking him out to the monsters around them. Bolg's finest swarmed them and every stroke of axe or sword sent an ork screaming to the ground.

Kili shook with fear and fatigue so mixed in him that he could not tell one from the other. He saw no end to their enemies, no way for them to emerge but dead and lost in the terrible carnage. Still he fought on. For his cousins. For his uncle. For his home. Above all, for his brother.

He did not see Bolg's approach. He knew nothing of their peril until Fili screamed their uncle's name and Kili looked to see the ork like the ghost of his thrice-cursed sire. His red eyes were fixed on Thorin and his roar shook the earth underfoot.

"THORIN!" Fili flung himself forward and Kili, dazed and weary, reacted a second too late to follow. His brother's blades slashed through muscle and skin, sending black blood spraying through the air in great gouts. Orks fell before him. Kili's wits returned and he dived forward, mortally certain that this - _this_ \- was the moment Gimli had warned him against.

He saw the ork beside Bolg turn. He saw the great mace it bore - Azog's mace? Was this monster Bolg's brother? Another son? He saw Fili, shining gold and more precious in that moment than all the gold of Middle Earth and heard his brother's challenge shouted over the clamour of battle. Kili's heart turned to ice.

He shoved forward, heedless of any danger to himself. For there - behind Fili, where his brother could not see - there was another ork. This one had daggers, jagged and dripping blood and fouler fluids. Red eyes were fixed on his brother's unprotected breath.

Kili's breath curdled in his chest. His tongue was a leaden weight in his mouth. He tried to cry out a warning. His voice failed him.

Fili deflected the first blow from the mace, his second sword sinking into the guts of the monster he faced. It left his back exposed. Kili screamed but made no sound as he threw himself forward. The distance was too great. Fili could not hope to turn in time. Fili was going to die before his eyes and Kili felt his very soul recoil.

Then, through the mass of orks, Gimli came. Wielding the axe of his father in both hands, he ploughed into the knot of orks around Fili. The meaty sound as he buried his axe in the skull of the ork with daggers was the sweetest sound Kili had ever heard. The whole mass of them toppled.

The first ork seized up a dagger, murder in its beady eyes as it looked on Gloin's son. Gimli was intent on freeing his axe and keeping his body between Fili and the orks. Kili's brother looks to have been winded.

Thorin saw their peril and half-turned. The ork raised the dagger. Kili was still too far away! He heard his uncle's voice, crying out a warning or an order. Kili screamed, a thready desperate thing. His heart was near to bursting and still, he was too far, too slow-!

The thwip-thwip of arrows burying themselves in the neck and chest of the ork was lost in the battle. Kili only saw the ork fall, transfixed. The others were felled in the same manner.

"Well-shot, Kili!" Thorin's voice came as from a thousand miles away.

Kili did not understand why his uncle praised him. He had no arrows left. His bow was broken. Then Gimli had his axe free and Fili was rising to his feet with his cousin's grip to steady him. Kili flew to his side, all thought of arrows gone from his mind. His brother's shoulder was solid under Kili's hand. He felt the beat of his brother's heart, the heat of his breath and relief buckled his knees.

"Up," Fili said. ", Kili. The battle is not yet won!"

"Aye," Kili stood and took up an ork spear to match his sword. "But we will win it yet!"

Thorin had turned to face Bolg, his axe dulled from the battle but Orcrist shone as sharp as ever. Bolg could not stand against him, Kili thought and it seemed the ork agreed. A whole pack of his followers circled Thorin like hungry wolves. Thorin bared his teeth and Gimli, drawing on strengths beyond Kili's ken, hurled himself at the orks to the King's left.

He fought fiercely. Kili thought then that Gloin would be proud to own such a son. Gimli cut through them as an axe through wood and none could stand before him. Thorin trusted his back to Gimli and turned to face the greater foe. Bolg's remaining orks charged and Thorin might then have been overwhelmed.

But one of the orks fell under the feet of his comrades, crying out and screeching and they faltered. Another fell, howling that he had been mortally wounded and the attack disintegrated into a mass of confusion. Thorin had half the party slain before they could regroup and they fled, leaving Bolg to face the King Under the Mountain alone.

The battle between the King and the Ork would make for a thousand epics but Kili never doubted for a moment how it would end.

Gimli was a wall of steel and fury at the King's back. Kili and Fili set themselves back to back and laid about them with their weapons. There was more killing, more orks scrambling to slay the Line of Durin and gibbering of Azog and the White Warg. All perished to the cries of "KHAZAD! KHAZAD AI-MENU!"

Bolg fell and Thorin lifted his head by matted hair for all to see. His triumphant cry was echoed by cries of 'VICTORY!' in four tongues and the despair of the orks. They broke and fled with the Men and Elves in pursuit.

Kili faltered and clung to his brother's shoulder to keep his feet. Fili was laughing, half-mad with relief and the last of his frenzy. They clung to each other and their uncle, foul with sweat and blood, embraced them there on the field of their triumph.

Kili did not look and so he did not see the faint disturbances around them, as if an invisible person were walking through the devastation around them. And if Kili had looked and looked a little farther to where Gimli had sunk to the earth, too weary to stand, he would have seen an elf, fair and fierce, running to his side.

Fili looked. Fili saw the elf's hands hovering over the great rents in Gimli's armour and the worry that showed in every line of him. Fili saw Gimli reach up to twine his fingers through the elf's and lean up to press their foreheads together. Fili saw the elf's shoulders jerk in a great sob.

And Fili turned his eyes away and tightened his embrace of his kin and was grateful.


	16. Chapter 16

Long had the elf spoken of the forging of the Fellowship and their first weeks in company. Every soul in the hall is rapt to the epic tale that unfolds. Gloin's shoulder is long since numb from his grip and Legolas' pallor worries him. Still, it would be crude to interrupt, if indeed Legolas' steady flow of words could be stopped.

Legolas has spoken frankly and in depth. He means to finish the tale, Gloin knows, whatever it costs him in pain and woe. He has spoken of their failure to traverse the Pass of Cadharas due to the machinations of one in service to the Enemy and here he hesitates.

"Gimli urged that we should pass through Moria," Legolas says with a glance at Gloin. "Retaken in the name of Thorin, King Under the Mountain, by his trusted friend and shield-brother. Balin, son of Fundin had gone forth from Erebor with those members of the Company who found their home tainted by bitter memories and they drove the orks from their lairs. Gimli said that we would receive a Royal welcome."

"As they should," Gloin interjects. "My son and one who was as a son to Bilbo Baggins? Aye, Balin must have offered you the best that his halls could supply!"

"Perhaps," Legolas' face is grim. "If he had lived. But Balin's reign had been briefer than any of us imagined and we found no welcome in Moria. Only death and despair. For the return of Durin's folk awakened a foul darkness in the deeps of Moria."

"Durin's bane," King Thorin does not sound surprised but his words are grim.

"Aye," Legolas bows his head to the King. "A Balrog, a dark Flame of Udun and more terrible than mere words can describe. We were grieved - Mithrandir and Gimli most of all - and the attack came without warning. We had no way to fight such a beast and so we fled across the bridge of Khazad-dum and out into the barren hills beyond."

"And the Balrog did not pursue you?" Elrond asks.

Legolas looks on Gandalf for a long moment and his grip on Gloin's shoulder threatens to break bone. There is an old grief in his eyes and the Wizard averts his eyes, fingers tightening around his staff.

"One remained to face the foul servant of Morgoth," Legolas allows. "And fell there, in the deep dark."

Oin pats the lad's hip and Legolas takes a shuddering breath.

"The Fellowship passed into the woods of Lorien, and the protection of the Lady Galadriel," Legolas' eyes focus again on the long past days of his quest. "And we grieved. Gimli's grief robbed him of sleep and thus we passed many nights under the trees. He permitted me to act as guide and I showed him the wonders of the Woodland Realm. I cannot count the nights we spent in each other's company, as often in silence or song as in conversation and we grew perhaps to be friends."

There is an aching fondness in his voice and Gloin clears his throat of the sudden lump. Legolas continues as if he did not notice.

"The Ringbearer took counsel with the Lady and saw worrying signs that the Ring's malice was at work within the Fellowship," Legolas bows his head. "He was correct to fear. We journeyed on to Amon Sun and there the Fellowship was broken. The Ring drove Boromir, son of Denethor who was Steward of Gondor, to madness and he tried to take the Ring for his own. The Ringbearer, rightly fearing that such corruption could befall any of the Fellowship, forsook our company and went on alone but for his dearest companion."

The heavy grief in his voice leaves little doubt in Gloin's mind of how the Ringbearer had fared. Legolas speaks on, as the sun's light fades from the high windows and the dark creeps in, of Fangorn, of Gimli's brave courtesy to the Forest's Shepherd and the battles for the kingdoms of Men. Gloin's chest puffs up with pride when Legolas speaks of his son's valour in the battle for Helm's Deep and how he had stood without flinching before the Dead and the worst of the Enemy's monsters.

"And it was then," Legolas' voice cracks. "When we stood before the Black Gate, with orks and trolls like a vile sea that covered the land from horizon to horizon: when hope seemed utterly lost, Frodo and Sam won through. The Ring was cast into the fiery depths and there destroyed. The Enemy's power was broken and all his forces were devoured by fire and death."

His voice is worn nearly clean away and Gloin looks to his King.

"Might he not have a drink to ease his throat, my King?" Gloin asks respectfully. "The telling has wearied him greatly."

King Thorin takes up a goblet, lately of Smaug's hoard, and gives Legolas wine with his own hands. The vintage is Laketown's finest and a hint of colour stains the high arch of the elf's cheekbones as he drinks. He bows in thanks.

"I would hear the rest of the tale," King Thorin says. Thranduil makes a strangled sound but the King Under the Mountain does not look at him. "If you feel your strength will last through the telling."

"I have strength enough to finish the tale," Legolas says. "I will not weaken until my task is done."

He resumes the tale under the Dwarf King's avid eyes. "There was as much celebration as our weary hearts could stand and Aragorn was crowned King of Gondor. It was at the coronation that I was privileged to meet Gimli's kin."

Legolas bows to Gloin who jerks his head in acknowledgement. If he did not fear that it was only his support that kept the elf upright, he would have bowed in return.

"What happens after..." Legolas hesitates. "I ask your pardon for my mind is clouded and my memory uncertain. I remember that we rose on a fine spring morning and it seemed to be so fine a day that I could not bear to remain within walls. Gimli professed no such inclination but when I asked, he willingly bore me company. We went North towards Fangorn and it seemed to me we walked only a short time. We found our way into a forest and were separated. I went in search of him and found your Company instead. The rest you know."

"But we don't!" Kili cries out. "Why did you abandon the Company? What happened during the Battle? _Where are our companions?_ Where are Bilbo and Gimli? What was their Fate?"

"All questions for which I much desire answers," King Thorin says. The shining gem over his throne is the only light and his face is cast in shadow.

Legolas bows his head and when he looks up, his eyes are wet.

"Had I remained in your Company in the lands of my father, O King Under the Mountain, my father would have known me and been greatly confused. He would have locked you away and called for counsel from the Wisest and never allowed any laxness among your guards. Your burglar could not have freed you and your quest would have failed."

"Hmph," King Thorin sits back and his heirs look on the elf with all the fierce curiosity their uncle's expression cannot betray. "And why did you not wish to be recognized, Master elf?"

"We knew well the tale of Bilbo Baggins' adventure," Legolas answers. "We knew that the Ring had passed to him and we meant to see it destroyed before it could blight more lives."

"A bold endeavour," King Thorin says.

"And one in which they were successful," Elrond says in a ringing voice that draws all eyes to him. "This makes sense of some very perplexing news that has reached us. A Mountain burns in the heart of Mordor and foul things had gone from places where all the skill of the Elves could not drive them forth. A creeping Shadow, so subtle that we did not pay it heed, has been lifted"

"Gimli swore he would see it done," Legolas breathes and Gloin looks at him. "The plan was the work of us both but fulfilment fell to him and he has not failed."

The elf is openly weeping and Gloin reaches to pat a bowed shoulder, awkward with such free emotion.

"But come, Prince Legolas," Fili says. "You have told but half the tale. We are still in ignorance of your plan. How did this come to pass?"

"Yes," Legolas says almost to himself. Then he straightens and Gloin feels a helpless surge of pride at the resolve on his face. "Hear then, Prince Fili, all that remains to be told of our tale."


	17. Chapter 17

It was a very reassuring thing, Bilbo found, to have something to do.

He had not enjoyed his first experience of battle. Oh, he had cheered as much as any when the Eagles came sweeping down and Beorn's folk raised their mighty cry. He had fought as best he could, hacking at the orcs who thought to overrun Thorin during his battle with Bolg. His poor little knife was foul with orc blood and Bilbo felt as if he might be sick when he turned from Thorin and Fili and Kili and looked out over the devastation.

His heart was still thundering in his ears and his knees were weak as he picked his way carefully through the battlefield. He was grateful for the blurring distortion of the ring as he tried not to look at the wreckage that had recently been living beings. He was only a hobbit and hobbits do not make good warriors. Hobbits think too much on death and the pointless waste of war to be happy fighting if there is another choice.

Such thoughts were weighty things and Bilbo was relieved to have a more immediate task. He passed like a shadow through the great gates of Erebor and found the packs where Gimli had promised they would be. They were heavier than he'd expected and clanked like a foundry when he heaved them up. Even a year ago, Bilbo would not have been able to lift the weight but adventuring had hardened his muscles.

Bilbo made his way slowly back, eyes wandering through the dying throes of battle to look for his companions. He saw Bofur and Bombur, leaning together and breathing heavily with eyes wide at the wonder of their own survival. He saw Dori and Nori hugging Ori and weeping all over him. All the while their young brother, blood rips showing the gleam of armour under his cardigan, patted ineffectually at their arms.

Bilbo found Bifur limping across a great pile of dead orcs. Even if the hobbit took off the ring, he would have passed unnoticed for Bifur's eyes were fixed on his kin and he made his way towards them with single-minded Dwarven determination. Bilbo saw the moment Bombur spotted him but the thunder of approaching footsteps drowned out Bofur's glad cry.

Dwalin, looking fearsome indeed with black orc blood staining his skin and his beard matted into spikes, came crashing past almost close enough to touch. Bilbo looked after him and saw the big Dwarf fall to his knees, huge hands reaching out tentatively for the small form of his brother amid a great circle of carnage.

Bilbo's heart skipped a beat but Balin stirred under Dwalin's hands and Bilbo heard the crack in the big warrior's voice as he pulled at his brother's tunic and armour. Balin swatted at his hands, seeming dazed but as near to unharmed as could be hoped for. Bilbo turned away as Dwalin pressed his forehead against his brother's and tears flowed freely down his cheeks.

Oin and Gloin were sitting on a great heap of dead orcs; Oin was bandaging his brother's head and muttering darkly at him. Gloin had a whetstone in one hand and his axe in the other and was watching the Elves as they finished off a couple of Wargs.

All alive and Bilbo bowed his head, offering a prayer of thanks as devoutly meant as his early prayers for mercy. Then he hurried back up the hill, puffing as quietly as he could under the weight of the packs. Thorin, majestic and more kingly now than ever before, was graciously greeting his cousin from the Iron Hills with his sister-sons crowded close to his shoulder.

Bilbo was not surprised to see Legolas had moved Gimli away from the dead and the other Dwarves but his shoulders were aching cruelly by the time he found them beside a small stream. Legolas was cleaning the blood from Gimli's face with gentle hands and Gimli was sitting quietly, breathing deep and slow. They were looking at each other and Bilbo's breath caught at the raw emotion thus revealed. He had never imagined, safely tucked into his little hobbit hole, that such a depth of love and fear and joy could exist.

He felt humbled and had to look away. It seemed a pity to interrupt but he dropped one of the packs and they both looked around, hands grasping for weapons near at hand.

"It's only me," Bilbo said hurriedly and fumbled to take off the ring.

"Mister Baggins," Gimli relaxed first. "I trust you found the packs?"

"I did," Bilbo dropped the second pack down. "But they're very heavy."

"Aye, laddie," Gimli levered himself up, Legolas' hands hovering over his shoulders until he found his balance. "We have need of fresh armour and warm cloaks and bedrolls. I packed what I could find. There was no food to be spared-"

"I have provisions," Legolas said. "Enough lembas to feed an army."

"Pah," Gimli grumbled and Legolas' smile as he looked down at his friend was fond. "I'd rather some of the smoked ham or a nice tasty rabbit but I suppose it is better than starving on the road."

With help from both Legolas and Bilbo, Gimli opened the packs to reveal neatly rolled shirts of mithril like the one Bilbo still wore under his ruined shirt and weskit. There was a stout woollen tunic of Dwarven make with a fur lining that fitted him well and Gimli had even found a hardy set of trousers made from thick cotton. For Legolas, there was a shining shirt of mithril that was long enough to reach his knees but could be adjusted by chains and clasps to fit under his Elven clothes. It was finely ornamented and a thing of beauty. Legolas' eyes were wide with wonder as he held it up.

"Crafted for one of your people," Gimli said. "I had to guess at the fit and make a few alterations but I wasn't going to send you into danger unprotected. There was time, after you left, that needed to be filled anyway."

Legolas embraced him tightly and paid no heed to Gimli's indignant squawk, speaking into his Dwarf's ear. Gimli coloured and reached up to pat Legolas' hands as the elf straightened to admire his new armour once more.

"So, Mister Baggins," Gimli said a little more gruffly. "Thorin Oakenshield lives and will take his throne with both his sister-sons to see it and grow strong and wise under the Mountain. There were none lost from your Company and what hurts they have taken can be healed in the times of peace to come."

"Aye," Bilbo said, nodding as his eyes stung. "I hold our bargain fulfilled, Master Gimli. I will go with you."

"And where, little badger," a great voice came from behind a rock and they spun to see Beorn, large as a house, "do you mean to go?"


	18. Chapter 18

"Beorn saw you on the battlefield?" Gandalf demands. "He said nothing of the sort to me!"

"Lord Beorn was sworn to secrecy," Legolas licks his lips and Gloin bristles at the Wizard. "He had a fondness for Gimli."

"Aye," Gloin nods. "Took to him while we bided under his roof."

Beorn had found his son's temper amusing, admiring his determination to sit up into the early hours of the morning to see that his kin did not harm his Elf in the night. Gloin had been proud even in his confusion. Gimli had been the only Dwarf to seek conversation with the Bear-lord and there had been an understanding between them ere the Company set out into Mirkwood.

"But for Beorn not to speak to any of what he saw..." Lord Elrond purses his lips.

"If he swore to keep mute," King Thorin speaks over the Elf, "then I can find no fault in his silence. I would hear the reason for his oath."

"I do not know the details," Legolas bows his head and Gloin sees Thranduil take a step forward, arrested only by Lord Elrond's hand against his chest. The Elf-king's anguish is clear as a gold seam threaded through dark rock. "I never sought to know the tale of what happened. The battle of Five Armies was a bleak and terrible time. The war, the slaughter of so many to so little effect...grieved me deeply."

"Your first battle?" King Thorin says and there is the faintest hint of sympathy in his tone. Legolas nods jerkily and the Dwarf King sighs. "Battle is never beautiful."

"My folk," Legolas darts a glance at his father, "we did not speak of it. We took no great note of the events around the battle. The Dwarves of Erebor were more thorough. Gimli knew that Mithrandir had left the Company, departing to do battle with the Necromancer of Dol Guldur who had slain King Thrain."

There is a stir around the throne, King Thorin sits up sharply and his sister-sons crowd close. The King looks at Gandalf, who fingers his beard. "Is this true?"

"Yes," Gandalf says without remorse. "And even if I doubted Legolas' tale, that would be the proof. None were present for the act of cleansing save the White Council and there is no way for him to have learned of it."

"Gimli spoke of the Necromancer only once in my hearing," Legolas says. "When Pippin asked him why Dwarves hated Sauron so fiercely, Gimli said that Sauron had tormented the King to madness, past the memory of his name for the sake of the Great Ring he bore. He said too, that the King could not be utterly broken and that he kept safe a map and a key that one day, his son would succeed where he had failed."

King Thorin bows his head and Fili reaches to rest his hand over his uncle's clenched fist. Kili leans into his brother's back, eyes grieved and Legolas falls silent. The grief of the King fills the room and even the Elves bow their heads. Gloin knuckles at his eye and Oin clears his throat unnecessarily. Legolas grips Oin's shoulder in silent support.

"I do not see," King Thorin says at last, raising his head, "how the Necromancer is of any import to your quest."

"The Necromancer could not be driven forth forever," Legolas says. "For he was Sauron returned and unexpected but he was driven forth for a time. It gave us an opportunity, for while the Dark Lord's power was waxing, the Ring's power to draw the Wraiths was limited and during the time that he was banished from the old fortress, we could slip past unnoticed."

Gandalf and Lord Elrond pale in unison at Legolas' casual mention of Sauron reborn. Gloin remembers the tales of the Ring and the twisted evil that sought to conquer all the lands. Dwarves paid little heed to the tales and his own memories are imperfect. A ring with the power to induce madness and cast a shadow over all the lands seems like a fireside tale, told to induce nightmares. Gloin's concern is more prosaic.

"A clever thought," Gloin approves. "But that is a great distance to travel in so short a time with all three of you injured and weary!"

"Lord Beorn loaned us horses," Legolas says with a surprised smile at the memory of such unexpected generosity. "They could not take us the whole way but they bore us past Dol Guldur in goodly time. Gimli complained the whole way."

"That sounds like Gimli," Fili says and shares a fond smile with the Elf. "He always says that the only use for a horse is glue!"

"Even a friendship with the people of Rohan has not softened him on the matter," Legolas admits with another private smile. "But he is a Dwarf and Dwarves, as he liked to remind me, are practical folk. If a horse is required for a journey, then a horse will be used for the journey until he can find reason to have the good earth beneath his boots once more."

"A sensible approach!" Gloin says with some enthusiasm and Oin snorts at him.

"We travelled as swiftly as we dared," Legolas said. "It was our hope that with his wraiths scattered and Gundabad emptied, we could reach Ered Luithui, the Ash Mountains, before the Enemy knew the Ring was once more abroad."

"A daring scheme," King Thorin looks down at the elf. "And what if you were caught?"

"We could not be," Legolas falters. "We had agreed, he and I, that the quest was of greater importance than either of our lives. Bilbo Baggins, once the wickedness of the Ring was known to him, pledged to see it destroyed if it meant his own death."

The Elf's voice cracks and Thranduil lunges forward as he falters. Gloin cannot spare a glance at the Elf King for Legolas' strength seems to have failed him at the last. For all Gloin's greater strength, the difference in height would have foiled his attempt to steady the lad. Thranduil is there before his son can fall and Gloin is surprised by the gentleness of his touch.

He cannot ken what the Elf-king is saying but the tone is familiar; an echo of his own when Gimli was naught but a babe and prone to fussing at night. Gloin spoke so to his son, the words only there to fill the silence that his son might know he was loved and never alone in his need.

Legolas trembles under his father's touch and fresh tears fall. King Thorin watches him, face empty of emotion but eyes glittering as bright as the Arkenstone.

"We swore that it would be destroyed," Legolas cries in the voice of child hurt beyond its understanding. "We counted it cheaply bought with our deaths! And now he is gone and I am alone and the joy of victory is nothing but ash! He is lost! I live and he does not! What value can be had in such a failed triumph!?"

"Enough," King Thorin's expression sinks into hollow weariness and he lifts a hand to Gloin. "Take him away. Let him mourn. Let him heal."

Gloin bows and catches the Elf's belt, Thranduil glares down at him and makes no move to relinquish his son.

"Legolas of Mirkwood," King Thorin waits for the Elf to look at him. "I am grieved by your loss but Gimli, son of Gloin, died as a great hero and so we of Erebor will remember him. For what you three have done, we are grateful."

And then, King Thorin does something wholly unexpected. He bows, hand on his heart in the Elvish style. Fili and Kili, after a second of incredulous staring, mimic their uncle. For the first time in the history of Erebor, Dwarf bows to Elf within the lofty throne room and thus, Legolas Thrandullion is accorded honour beyond any dreamed of by his father.


	19. Chapter 19

Mordor shunned the sunlight as completely as the orcs that riddled its foul land shunned cleanliness. Four days of trekking through the squalor had Bilbo wishing for a pair of good Dwarven boots like those of his companion. The ring around his neck seemed to grow heavier with every step and Bilbo heard fell whispers in his dreams. It seemed better to wait out the brief nights when orcs swarmed the swamps and desert in search of food and plunder than to sleep and wake with a mouth that felt stuffed full of grave dirt.

Bilbo would have been lost a hundred times - a thousand - if not for his companion. Fili and Kili would not have known their merry cousin in the grim Dwarf who led Bilbo through the lands of Mordor. Gimli had shed the hearty weight of a healthy, happy Dwarf. His face put Bilbo in mind of Thorin but where the King Under the Mountain's determination had ever carried the taint of sickness, Gimli's silent gaze seemed to look beyond the world. It is as if, Bilbo thought, Gimli has taken up Elvish ways for there is much in his silence that makes the hobbit think of Elrond's home and the aloof detachment of Thranduil's court.

Gimli has guarded him fiercely and watched over him as Thorin had watched over his Company. Bilbo did not like to think about their destination. Gimli and Legolas had made no effort to hide the dangers from him and Bilbo knew that they went to their deaths. He was afraid but every time his couraged faltered, he thought of Frodo and the great and terrible war that Gimli had spoken of him on the last stage of the journey to the Mountain.

He thought of Thorin's father and the wickedness that would torture a King and father to madness for a trinket. Bilbo could hardly imagine it but it seemed to him that destroying Sauron, breaking forever the lure of the rings was something that had to be done. Hobbits like their comforts but when there is a thing that must be done, no hobbbit worth the name will stand by.

They stopped for rest in the shadow of the mountain, tucked away in a nook that was barely big enough for a goblin and Gimli took out the last of the lembas.

"No point to saving it," Bilbo said as the Dwarf broke it into pieces. The larger part was Bilbo's and he was so very hungry now. A full belly was an anchor against the whispers and the lembas was good. It would have been better with some of Mistress Gamgee's strawberry jam or honey from one of Beorn's hives and a cup of tea and a mite of butter but it was food and Bilbo had eaten much worse on his journeys.

"How fares the Ring?" Gimli asked when Bilbo had licked the last of the crumbs from his hand.

"It's getting heavier," Bilbo admitted. "I hear the whispers when I am awake now, though it seems as if they are coming from very far away. My thoughts are dark as the land and I wish very much that I had not gone running out my door all those months ago."

Gimli grunted and his wry smile showed white teeth. "Rest, Master Baggins."

"I cannot quiet my thoughts," Bilbo said peevishly because he was tired but a night full of unquiet whispers and half-formed nightmares would only weary him more.

"And what thoughts plague you?"

"Why did you send Legolas away?" Bilbo blurted out before he could think better of the question. Gimli sat back a little as if surprised. "You miss him sorely - every step you take away from the Black Gate is torment but you insisted he go?"

"Hrmm," Gimli said in his throat and fingered his axe. "I sent him away because Mordor is no place for an Elf. He would shine like a star in this murk and bring every orc for a thousand miles to chase us."

Bilbo thought about that. It was a sensible answer and a very Dwarfish sort of answer but Bilbo had not spent more than a year in the company of the most Dwarfish Dwarves in all of Middle Earth without learning a few things.

"You said that there was nothing in all the world that you prized so highly as his company," Bilbo said eventually. He had not liked to mention it but during his walks around Beorn's garden, he had heard things that neither of the pair had meant for his ears. "No Dwarf parts from their treasure without a very serious reason."

"Heard that, did you?" Gimli did not seem surprised. "I'll be thankful you didn't tell my cousins."

"I didn't mean to intrude!" Bilbo insisted. Here, at the end of their quest, it had not seemed so important but Dwarves were private folk and Gimli more so than most of his kin. "I thought it was beautiful. I did not mean- You were in the trees! Anyone might have heard!"

"And yet, only you did," Gimli said mildly. "'Tis true enough, Master Baggins, I own. I would rather only he had heard but I'll not argue the truth of what I said."

"So why send him away?" Bilbo asked. "You knew that we had only days until we reached Mount Doom. Why not have his company for those days? Why not take the last moments of happiness where you could?"

Gimli sighed and looked up. The sky was dark as a cave roof and as hard as he looked, Bilbo had not been able to find a single star in the week they had been trekking through Mordor.

"There are several answers to that, laddie," he said at last. "I did not lie when I said that his radiance here would shine as bright as the sun and orcs hate Elves more than anything. It would be the ruin of our quest. That is the answer my mind gives to your question. My heart... My heart says that I sent him away because I have seen enough of the Elders die to know that death sits ill with them. I would not see him die. But there again, that is not the whole of the truth."

Bilbo drew his knees up and huddled more closely into the good Dwarven coat he wore. Gimli's whole bearing had softened and Bilbo felt again like an intruder. He had never dreamed such a depth of emotion could exist, much less between the likes of a Dwarf and Elf of the noblest blood. He was jealous and a little grateful. Such a love was terrifying to contemplate and he could not imagine how it felt to rely so much on another person to be happy.

"I bid him leave," Gimli said in a soft voice. "Because I am weak and I knew that if I brought him into the peril of Mordor, I would do half of Sauron's work for him. My honour, my word are trifles against my wish to see him safe and free. I would have turned aside from our sworn quest without a moment's thought to buy his life. So I sent him away, back to where his father's people might find him and save him, so that I would have the strength to face the last of this journey without faltering."

"Aren't you afraid?" Bilbo burst out. "Don't you want to live?"

"Aye," Gimli smiled sadly at him. "But more than that, I want my King to rule and prosper. I want my people to thrive and grow in strength and wisdom. I want the lands of all the Free folk to be free of peril and evil. I want my Own to live and find happiness. I want his life to be his own. My life seems little enough to lose for such a thing to come to pass."

"Oh," Bilbo said and looked down at his dirty hands and his torn and mucky clothes. "I am afraid. I want to go back to Bag End and my books and my little smial. I am only a very little hobbit. I'm not a hero like you and Legolas."

"Size does not make the hero," Gimli said, resting one of his powerful hands on Bilbo's shoulder. "A hero is one who does what it is right, no matter what the price."

Bilbo swallowed and looked up to where smoke leaked from the mountain top. Mount Doom was a black, jagged shape in the gloom with the fires at its heart glowing only faintly. He felt very small indeed but Gimli's heavy hand steadied him.

"All right," Bilbo said and swallowed again. "I can last a little longer, if you help me."

"You have my axe, Master Baggins," Gimli pledged in a gruff tone.


	20. Chapter 20

That night in Erebor, Thranduil and his glowing cohort fill the corridors where the dwarves of Durin's line who fall outside the Royal Line dwell. Thranduil sits within Gloin's own rooms, a not entirely welcome guest but Gloin knows a father's grief. How can he deny the Elf the company of his own son?

It is a strange thing, to find a kinship with an Elf but Gloin can see the echo of his own certainty in the way that Thranduil reaches for this strange son from a future time. Legolas sleeps, seeming barely to breathe and Thranduil hovers by his bedside, face twisted in an un-Elfish expression of grief. Gloin can see the surety that he felt - the King of the Greenwood has not once questioned or doubted - reflected in those alien eyes. He thinks of the things that he would have said, would have done if his own future son had lived and sighs.

Gloin stands and the Elf-king starts, putting himself between the Dwarf and his son. Gloin smiles sadly, nods to them both and leaves. The surprise that widens the dratted creature's eyes warms his heavy heart. Gloin draws out his pipe and walks to the great balcony to light it from a torch.

The lands beyond are dark with night but Dwarven eyes are keen. Gloin can see where the last pyre of foul orc carrion is smouldering and beyond that, the lights of what will be Dale again sparkle like diamonds in the rock.

"Didn't expect to see you here," Dwalin's voice is rusty and the thump of his boots is irregular, a legacy of his war wounds though Oin is confident that he'll keep the leg

"Oh?" Gloin says. He's fond of his cousins but Dwalin's tact is a blunt and painful thing.

"Thought you were watching the Elf," Dwalin says, then corrects himself before Gloin can growl. "Legolas, your son's laddie."

"He has his father," Gloin says, a touch bitterly. "I needed the air."

"Ah," Dwalin leans on the balcony wall, looking out over the valley. "I'll not insult you with the obvious."

"Ach, I must be in a state," Gloin says sourly. "If Dwalin, son of Fundin thinks to comfort me."

"He was a fine lad," Dwalin says bluntly. "A credit to his ancestors. Ye're right to mourn him."

"Well, thank you for yer permission, Master Dwalin," Gloin starts when they hear an unfamiliar tread on the stair. There is a more familiar, lighter thread hurrying behind and Kili spills out into the cold night air on his brother's heels. Fili, who looks enough like his father in that moment that Gloin and Dwalin both feel a shiver down their spines, walks to the balcony's edge. Like as not he'd have kept walking if the sturdy Dwarf-built wall hadn't been there to stop him.

"Fili lad," Gloin starts but Fili doesn't speak, doesn't look back at any of them. His brother, poor lad, is wringing his hands. "What's the trouble?"

"I don't know," Kili bursts out, eyes darting from them to his brother. "He was sleeping, truly he was! Thorin told us to rest for the night. There is work tomorrow and Fili was exhausted. I went to wash and when I came back, he was gone."

Dwalin steps forward and Gloin yields to his greater knowledge. Gloin has a bare kenning of the lads compared to Dwalin; they were Gimli's playmates and cousins until King Thorin brought them on the quest. Dwalin looks worried and Gloin nods to Kili.

"Run and fetch your uncle, lad. No, no arguments. Go!"

Kili hesitates, one hand reaching for his oblivious brother before he tears himself away at a run. Gloin and Dwalin move by mute agreement to flank the prince who is looking out into the valley.

"Can you see it?" Fili says, so suddenly that Gloin startles.

"See what?" Dwalin rumbles, looking out.

"The light," Fili says almost dreamily. "The light in the south and east."

Gloin squints at the southern horizon, where the clouds of ash still rising from Mordor obscure the stars themselves. For endless minutes, all he sees is murky darkness and he turns his head to say as much when he sees it. A faint flash of light. It's naught but the tiniest and weakest glimmer but it's there.

"What light?" Dwalin demands, leaning over the wall perilously far. Gloin grabs him by the belts and hauls him back.

"That light, y'fool!" Gloin points to the faint glimmer and Dwalin squints ferociously at the distant horizon.

"What light?" Their King's voice is harsh and Gloin nearly lets Dwalin fall as he tries to turn and bow and explain all at once. Thorin's expression is grim and he has Kili crowded up against his shoulder and Gandalf's lanky shadow not far behind.

"The light of the Lady," Fili says, still in that dreaming voice. "I heard her singing in the dark."

"What Lady?" his uncle demands, catching Fili by the shoulder to shake. "What singing?"

"Singing, Thorin-king," Gandalf says in a voice that seems half entranced, "Of one who is worthy of the finest gift that can be granted to those who dwell in Middle Earth. The song is of Gimli, son of Gloin and the Lady who sings of him is a very great and good force in this world. He is being honoured far beyond the dreams of mortals."

It would have been kinder if the Wizard had reached into his chest and stopped his heart. Gloin lets Dwalin go and turns to look fully at the distant light, barely even a glimmer now. Hope, the same stubborn hope that made him pledge so much of his family's wealth on the fool's quest that regained their home, kindles in his breast. He looks to the South and East and dares to think that maybe he might yet find his son.

"But you should not lose heart, Sons of Durin," Gandalf's hand comes to rest on his shoulder. "There is yet hope."

"Is there hope, Gandalf?" It is King Thorin who speaks. "The Elf said-"

"There are more and greater things in this world, Thorin Oakenshield," Gandalf says in exasperation, "than even an Elf can comprehend. A light that shines in the dark is no mean omen and Bilbo has survived a great deal."

"And my son?" Gloin demands.

"Well, there is only one way to be sure," Gandalf says, straightening up as Fili shakes himself and looks around in surprise. "We must go and look!"

Gloin falters for a heart's beat. He thinks of finding not his son but the broken, tormented body that was his son. Gimli in his mind is a hearty and hale Dwarf, fearless in battle and unflinching in his loyalties. Could Gloin keep than memory, precious and untarnished, in the face of proof that his son has died in pain and alone but for a Hobbit?

"Go and-" King Thorin sputters. "Gandalf, I have a kingdom to rebuild, alliances to restore, a thousand and one things that need my presence."

"I'll go," Fili says. "You shan't need me for weeks, uncle. I can go with Gandalf as your representative."

"Me too!" Kili practically leaps to his brother's side. King Thorin looks at them with dark eyes and Gloin steps forward before the King can forbid the adventure. If his son is dead, then Gloin wants his bones to rest in the deep of Erebor where he can be entrusted to the Maker and find his place easily to the halls of his father's fathers. No parent wishes to outlive their child but Gloin will not fail his treasured boy now out of weak sentiment.

"And I," he booms. "'Tis my son that we speak of! If any hope remains, my King, I must go!"

King Thorin looks at him and for a second, he is simply Thorin, son of Thrain. The other Dwarves hush. Even Gandalf does not speak as Gloin meets his King's eyes and does not look away. King Thorin sighs deeply.

"Will the Eagles consent to bear you?" he asks the Wizard.

"They will," Gandalf says. "For the sake of the Ringbearer and his companion, they will bear us hence and back again."

"That doesae mean it's safe!" Dwalin bursts out from where he has been fretting himself into a tizzy.

"It is safer than any alternative," Gandalf huffs. "And the Eagles will take us there in hours. Need I remind you that it took Bilbo and his companions nearly a month to travel there on the finest horse Lord Beorn could provide?"

"You need not," King Thorin speaks decisively. "And I can spare none of you for a month. If the Eagles will carry you there, you may go but be cautious. Be safe and behave yourselves!"

The last order is directed squarely at his nephews. Fili nods, doing a better job of hiding his exuberance that his brother but they beam like Dwarflings given their first jewels. Gloin bows more solemnly, words of gratitude caught in his throat.

"Find them," King Thorin bids them and then he lets them go.


	21. Chapter 21

The Wizard goes to summon the Eagles, muttering to himself about nesting sites and the hour. Gloin asks his brother, whose eyes are keener than his lost ears ever were, to mark the position of the light. Even with the Eagles, the sun will rise before they can hope to be close enough to find it again. Oin looks at him.

"He lives?"

"I dunnae know," Gloin admits. "But I have hope. If he is dead then I can at least bring his bones back to lie under the Mountain with his kin."

Oin pats him gruffly on the shoulder and sets aside his ear horn in favour of one of the cunning brass tubes. Gloin hurries to his room, gathering up the weapons and armour he'd set aside after the Battle and donning them with all the speed that he can muster. The armour is but crudely patched but no matter, Gloin has his axes and there's naught in this world that will stand between him and his son.

He does hesitate before he leaves the room. His Dwarven blood is up and he is eager to find his boy and bring him home, whether to the cool healers' quarters or the colder crypts below. Only one thought stays him; the elf.

Gloin's beard bristles merely at the thought of seeing the simpering Elf king but the other, his boy's elf... The lad must know. Likely he'll think it madness but Gloin has woven his son's beads into the elf's braids, stood by him and claimed him as kin before the King Under the Mountain. He cannot leave without sharing what little hope there is. 

King Thorin, in a act of grace or malice, has accommodated the Elven King in the chambers of old. The lad must have been brought here from Gloin’s quarters. The rooms, being designed to the taste of Elves, have found little favour in the eyes of Erebor's people and have not been cleared. The corridors are dusty and the lights are dim. An elf with darker hair steps forward. The Elf captain from the city, Gloin remembers her and not entirely kindly.

"Who goes there?"

"I've come to speak to the lad," Gloin says. He is already impatient and he has no time for Elven sensibilities.

"He ...rests," the elf captain says, eyes darting aside for a moment. "His father does not wish him disturbed."

"Aye," Gloin can hear the faintest vibrations through the stone, knows the boisterous rhythm of Kili and Fili are gathering supplies. There is no time to dally, the younglings will have half the Mountain roused within the hour. "And what does the lad himself wish?"

"For his heart to be returned to him," the captain says and Gloin hears a disquiet in her voice. She looks uncomfortable and Gloin thinks that Kili said something of her being friends with the prince who properly belongs in this time. He could leave, excuse himself by her reluctance but that is the coward's path.

"Then I must speak with him at once," Gloin says crisply. "Dawn's not far off and the Eagles are coming as swift as wing and wind can carry them."

"You are departing?" The elf-captain looks startled.

"Aye," Gloin nods and she looks at him, then over her shoulder before she holds his gaze.

"Is there hope, Lord Gloin?" she asks, un-elfishly straight forward.

"Gandalf claims there is," Gloin says. "A light shines in the East."

"Please, wait here," she says with a half-bow. "I will fetch him for you."

She vanishes like a shadow flees a candle's light and Gloin smoothes his beard. He is eager to be gone, his fingers itch for his axe and his heart calls out to know how his son fared. There is a lesser concern for Bilbo, who is a companion rather than kin but still deserves better than a lonely grave in foul lands. Gloin will see him recovered, no less than Gimli and see him honoured if all the Mountain tries to stand before him.

"Gloin-ada?" Legolas's voice is weak and he looks more like a ghost than living flesh and blood but his eyes are bright and keen. Gloin reaches out to steady him and is relieved to feel the solid flesh under the tunic. He is still among the living.

"There is word," he says, grudging the presence of the elf-captain but not foolish enough to try and order her away. "Of a sort. Prince Fili dreamed strangely tonight and there is a light in the East."

Legolas stops breathing, his eyes go wide with hope and fear. Gloin averts his eyes, uncomfortable with such open emotion even from his son's beloved. Legolas is in many ways the opposite of what Gloin has seen of his younger self.

"The Wizard says that there is hope," Gloin continues. "King Thorin has permitted me and some of my kin to search out the source of this light. The Wizard is calling the Eagles to bear us."

"I must go!" Legolas says, almost tripping over the words in his haste. He pushes away from both supports and stands on his own feet. "If any hope remains...I must go. I must see!"

"King Thranduil will not be pleased," the elf-captain says and there is a bitter edge to her slight smile. Gloin cannot read her intent but Legolas turns to look at her and there is a silence that feels profoundly awkward to Dwarven sensibilities. They might be willing to stare at each other until the Mountain wears down around their pointy ears but Gloin is impatient to be gone.

"Nor would King Thorin be pleased," Gloin says gruffly. Both elves turn to face him with that unnatural speed that makes his axe fingers itch. He offers a small smile instead. "But this is my boy and my quest and under the Mountain's laws, I may choose the companions I wish as long as they are willing."

Legolas lights up; actually lights like a lantern which is not a thing that Gloin knew Elves could do. Here in the gloom, he shines brighter than the Arkenstone. Gloin wonders if it was this is what his son saw; a beauty in unquenchable light. Legolas seems invigorated with hope.

The elf-captain has his bow and arrows and the mithril shirt that Gimli gave him. It takes Legolas bare moments to don his gear and he is swift-footed at Gloin's side. The corridors are nearly empty which is probably as well; Gloin has no more paitence for delay.

"You've practice at a Dwarven pace," he observes as Legolas follows in his steps.

"Only the hard-learned wisdom that a Dwarf under rock is the best judge of the path," Legolas says with a smile that carries the weight of fond memory.

"Then you learned well," Gloin says and leaves it at that.

They pass through the Gate unchallenged. Gandalf is leaning on that overgrown twig of his, hat tipped back enough to let him scan the horizon. He lifts a hairy brow at the glowing elf and Gloin glowers back. Killi and Fili come tumbling out the gate with Oin shouldering a pack behind them.

"Dwalin's in a taking," Oin observes with a grin.

"Let him be," Gloin looks over at Legolas who is staring into the East with wide, hopeful eyes. "What do you see, laddie?"

"A light," the elf answers. "Brighter than a star. It is...familiar to me but I cannot remember where I have seen it before."

Fili looks at Gloin, who has tightened his grip on his axe. A light that only Legolas remembers must come from a future now averted. The tales Legolas has told of that future were dark.

"A good omen then," Gandalf says as if to chase away their fears and as the sound of great wings fills the sky, Legolas steadies himself against Gloin's shoulder and they look to the East.


	22. Chapter 22

Travelling by Eagle, Gloin has found, is like being a leaf in the wind. The dangers are so great that one cannot think of them and the whole of Middle Earth unfolds beneath, a tapestry of rock, earth and living things. The land around Erebor is scarred by the dragon but Gloin can see, like the specks of gold in poorer ore, the beginnings of new growth.

Legolas does not spare even a single glance for the lands below, all his Elven sight bent on the murky clouds of ash and smoke. His desperation needs no words and Gloin takes the precaution of a stout grip on the lad’s belt. Legolas does not seem to notice and Gloin’s heart sinks.

The dawn that comes is brief - scarcely has the sun risen than it is swallowed by the ash that spreads like rot across the sky. The Eagles scream and call. The hot wind that comes from the east is rank as dragon’s breath and Gloin coughs. He is grateful that there is nothing in his stomach but even the emptiness curdles.

The Eagles cannot keep their formation; the air is too thick with heat and flying fragments of ash. Each Eagle presses forward as best their own courage and wit can guide them. Legolas’ fingers are white with the force of his grip. Perhaps that is why their Eagle is the first to see the pass and swoop over the ruins of what had been a gate.

There is no light beyond. For an endless rush of time Gloin is aware of the chill of the feathers beneath him, the thick heat of the air around him and the sound of wind in his ears. Then the Eagle screams, triumph and defiance and they are past the mountains. 

A sullen red light glows below and Gloin’s sight clears. The light is the glow of lava, the hot blood of the earth, and Gloin feels a stab of fear that he has not felt since he was a beardless Dwarfling with his first pick in hand. A mine that pricks the Earth deep enough to draw out fire and searing heat is a curse to every miner.

Gloin turns his gaze away with a quiet prayer to the Maker for mercy. The light is red and cursed but Legolas shines, almost as brightly as the Arkenstone did amid the scree and mine leavings of Erebor. Between the two, Gloin’s eyes are keen enough to see the details as the Eagle is forced closer to the ground and he looks down into a hellish pit.

Mordor is ash. 

The broken mountain in the centre of the plain bleeds fire and death but the bare rock is covered with the dead. Gloin had never dreamed that there were so many orcs in all the lands and his breath catches to imagine how much evil could have been done with such armies. Miles and miles slip by and there is only death and rot. There is no triumph in this. All these bodies, thin and wretched, make Gloin’s heart heavy. He does not know the ways of orcs but there are bodies that seem too small to be anything but children. Gloin tastes bile and copper and he looks away.

The rush of air behind them heralds Gandalf and the other Eagles. The Wizard’s face is grim and the light atop his staff flickers like a dying candle. He does not try to speak, just points onward towards the peak as a shift in the wind sends a cloud of smoke and sour air washing over them.

It is slow, arduous going. The sweep of the Eagle’s wings seems more laboured and the cries between it and the others fell silent. There was only the rush of air and the faint sounds 

Legolas seems to dwindle as more dead, empty land passes under the Eagles’ wings. Gloin pats at his shoulder awkwardly. “There is still hope, laddie.”

Legolas offers him a wan smile but says nothing.

The murk before them thins out enough that Gloin can see the volcano that leaks red fire into the darkness. Smoke and foul gases turn his stomach and he coughs. Erebor was never so foul, not when Smaug himself wallowed in her halls. There is nothing here but death and rot. Gloin thinks of his son, fallen and sullied by this corruption and bile rises sharp and bitter on his tongue. He leans forward, tries to part the smoke by will alone and squints like a miner chasing an elusive vein.

“There!” 

The light lasts not even a heartbeat but it shines. Legolas surges forward, far enough that only Gloin’s grip on his belt keeps him from falling. The Eagle’s wings drive through the air more strongly and the mountain comes rushing up.

As soon as the ground beneath can be seen, Legolas will be held no longer. He carries Gloin with him this time. The elf lands lightly. Gloin manages to land on his feet though the shock of his landing loosens his grip. He has scarcely time to pull his axe from his belt before the Elf is running.

“Up, laddie!” Gloin shouts. The air is thick and foul but the earth’s blood is a certain death. If the light has not led them false, the only safe place would be as high as Dwarven grit or Hobbitish determination could take them. “Go up!”

It does not occur to Gloin that Dwarves and Hobbits are not the only ones who might have sought the safety of the summit. It does not occur to him, until he sees a twisted shadow rise from the dark behind Legolas. The blade flashes in the Elf’s own light. Gloin lunges forward. Behind, the roar of his kin. All for naught.

Legolas turns. Too slow. His own blade still sheathed. Gandalf’s voice booms behind. A thousand curses flood Gloin’s mind. He throws himself forward, desperate and hopeless.

The solid, meaty sound of blade meeting flesh threatens to shatter Gloin’s heart. There is a frozen moment where even the heat of Mount Doom feels cold.

Then the ork falls, toppling over the rocks and down to land in a lifeless heap at Gloin’s feet. Gloin stares. His heart is hammering in his chest as if to break through his ribs. His breath rushes through his lungs and his tongue feels welded in place. He stares at the too-familiar axe lodged in the orc’s skull.

Then he looks up, up, past the Elf turning to follow his gaze and into the dim shadows beyond.

“That makes my tally three hundred and eighteen,” a beloved voice rings out. 

Gloin is just close enough to see the Elf’s face crumple in lines of relief and grief averted and then he is running, swift as a summer breeze. Gloin’s own knees buckle and his brother is by his side before he can fall. Gloin leans into him and weeps without shame.


	23. Chapter 23

Legolas will not suffer to be parted from Gimili. Glóin does not try overhard. Gandalf, pensively stroking his beard, does not try at all. Oin elbows the elf to one side to investigate the extent of Gimili's hurt. Gloin's son smiles but he is thin as a spear shaft and filthy with blood and dirt.

Fíli finds the burglar, so deeply asleep that Gloin fears him dead for a moment, tucked in the crevice behind Gimili and the Wizard bends over him with a furrowed brow. Kíli fingers the arrows in his quiver and tracks every imagined movement.

"We cannae tarry," Oin declares. "The laddie needs clean water and fresh bandages. The air is foul here, I'll not bare a wound to it."

"You are wise, Master Oin," Gandalf says. "This is a place of death and desolation. Thankfully, there is a better place where we may seek aid."

"Is it close?" Gloin does not take his eyes from his son who is struggling to rise under the slight weight of his mithril armour.

"A few hours as the Eagles fly," Gandalf promises. "Come! I would not tarry here without cause."

Gloin lends his shoulder and Legolas such strength as elves possess and Gimili is safely loaded onto the back of the Eagle that bore Gloin and Legolas hence. Oin excuses himself to oversee Bilbo's care and Gandalf steers their party back across the ravaged lands of Mordor.

Gloin is, truthfully, not required. Legolas has used his greater height to fold himself around Gimli, cushioning his hurts and singing softly to him. Gimli seems barely awake but one hand holds fast to his axe no matter how the Eagle shifts and soars.

It is not true sleep; Gloin slept so after the Battle agaist Azog, when not even his dear wife's voice could chase the fear away. Battle does not end so cleanly as songs tell. Gloin heard orc steps in every whisper of wind and saw their foul shapes in every flicker of fire or candle light.

How much more terror had Gimli felt? How much greater the danger?

Gloin cannot keep from looking back at his son, twice miraculously returned to him and so he does not notice how the land unrolls beneath them nor does he notice the first trees of Lorien rise. It is not until the Eagles' cries are answered by the melodious call of a horn that he realizes they have arrived.

The Eagles circle trees that shine with lantern light and Gloin looks down to see that there are Elves in the trees. He has heard little of Lorien and many tavern tales from Men who speak of a Witch in the Woods. He might have believed them even two months ago but much has changed.

He does not even attempt to dismount until Gandalf has done Wizardly things and the Eagles spiral down one after another to a clearing. There are a great number of Elves gathered and staring at them. Gloin feels sharply aware of the ash and dirt in his beard but he thrusts his chin out and glares at the Elves rude enough to stare at his son.

There is a lot of talking in the empty fluting of Elves while Gloin supports his son and Fíli and Kíli hold their halfling up and Oin fusses back and forth between them. Then the Lady herself comes forth and crosses the clearing to look at Bilbo and Gimli. There is a reverent hush and Gloin glances at Legolas.

His son's heart stands proudly, much as his sire would but when the Lady addresses him, Legolas's answers come slow and awkward. Gloin is perhaps two more words short of demanding that they speak a civilized tongue when Gimli shifts and the movement jars loose a finely crafted chain and a gem that sparkles like a star on a moonless night. 

The Elves gasp in unison and even the Lady draws back a fraction.

Almost immediately she recovers and reaches forth to rest her hand, fair and unsullied, on his son's shoulder.

"Well come, sons of Durin," she says in the Common Tongue. "Be welcome in our halls and beneath our trees. Come, Ringbearer and those most loyal companions. I would hear this tale for what has happened is not a thing forseen by the Wise."

Her words bring Elves running to bring them to rooms of polished wood where there are beds with soft blankets and pitchers of fresh water. Elves bring herbs and bandages to his brother and food and wine to the rest of them.

Gandalf seats himself by Biblo's bed and lights a pipe. Kíli falls asleep on a couch in the same room while his elder brother paces back and forth. Oin declares Bilbo to be whole in body and lightly wounded.

"His spirt..." Oin hrumphs and shakes his head. "I cannae speak to that. My art is healing the body."

"Lady Galadriel may be able to assist," Gandalf says. "Rest and peace will do much, I think."

Oin eyes the Wizard doubtfully and turns his attention to Gimli. Gloin's son is sorely wounded. The older wounds are from Bolog and the fight to save the mountain but there are fresher wounds too. The most grevious is on his side and he cries out when Oin tries to investigate.

"This troubles me," he says to the air as much to Gloin and Legolas who have restrained Gimli. "I know of no weapon that can leave such a wound. His blood is poisoned but this is no poison that any lore of Dwarf speaks of and he is hot, too hot for my liking. The wound has brought him fever."

Legolas looks stricken, his hands tightening their hold and Gloin feels sickened. Oin allows the Elves to enter and speaks long with the healers who inspect the wound. Gloin does not care for the way they frown and chatter to each other but they bring more herbs, water to wash his beard and braids and more healers.

Gloin goes to his bed only when his eyes will not stay open and he wakes late in the day to find his son, bare-chested under his bandages, sleeping with his Elf fitted as tightly to his side as mortal and immortal flesh can be twined. Gloin notes the healthy flush of colour in his son's cheek and goes forth to find breakfast.

Fíli is sitting at a table with Gandalf and Gloin joins them. The Wizard nods to him.

"Good morn, Master Gloin," he says. "The Lady tells me that your son is hale."

"Aside from the wound in his side," Gloin answers.

"Ah," the Wizard reaches for his pipe. "It has been nearly an Age since such wounds were seen. He was struck by one of Sauron's minions, a creature who was once a King of Men."

"They died," Fíli objects.

"Death in Sauron's service is no release," Gandalf's voice is heavy with age. "They did not die in truth, merely withered until nothing of value was left."

Gloin spits to the side. "Every gift the Dark Lord gave was poison."

Fíli nods and cuts into the fresh bread and Gloin's stomach rumbles. He eats heartily, finds that his brother is still abed and takes back a tray of fresh bread, butter and honey with a brace of apples in case his son has woken.

Gimli still sleeps but Legolas has roused. The Elf sits cross-legged by his son, combing his fingers through Gimli's unbound beard and carefully restoring the braids one by one. He does not turn his head when Gloin comes in.

"There's food," Gloin says. 

"He has always prefered sleep," Legolas says fondly. "He liked to rise for the Hobbits' second breakfast rather than the first."

"Because Sam would fry eggs for the second," Gimli's voice is rough from sleep. He looks fondly at his elf from the second his eyes open. Legolas's laughter is silver and mithril. "And you would offer nothing but weeds when you cooked."

Gloin clears his throat, feeling like an intruder. "Well, no eggs but the bread is fresh."

He takes a seat by the bed and Gimli eats around his elf's attempts to braid his hair. The sun shines only dimly beneath such vast trees and the wind is not too strong. It is almost pleasant. 

The healers come again and Gloin is sent from the room. He finds Fíli and Kíli sitting at the table, talking quietly. There is no sign of Gandalf but Fíli tells him that the Wizard is sitting with Bilbo.

"He is expected to wake soon," Kíli says. "Lord Elrond has come and is working his arts. It's put some noses out of joint among the other Elves."

Gloin grunts. "It would be well to see Bilbo back at the Mountain. Your uncle would be pleased."

Fíli nods. "The eagles have returned to the mountain and Lady Galadriel has allowed a raven to enter the woods. I have sent word and hope to hear his wishes within a couple of days."

"He cannae still be wrathful with the burglar," Gloin scoffs. "The lad did a fine job."

"He is not angry with Bilbo," Fíli agrees, "and I think he would be well content to see Bilbo back in Erebor."

There is a pause in which Kíli failed completely at discretion, jabbing his brother in the side and gesturing meaningfully towards Gloin. Gloin considers anger but his heart is still full of the sight of his son, hale and beloved.

"We have not discussed what to say about Gimli," Fíli says at last. 

"What is there to say?" Gloin puffs himself up a little. "He is my son."

"As is our Gimli who is scarely bearded," Kíli points out. "You can hardly claim both sons without starting every Dwarrow tongue from here to the Western Sea wagging."

Gloin grumbles. "The lad is my son and a pride to his people and his kin!" 

"Perhaps we should ask his opinion on the matter?" Fíli tries. "It is his tale and his business and he should have a say in how others are told?"

Gloin considers and can find no argument with that. He waits impaitently for the healers to leave so he can lay the matter before his son. Fíli comes, tugging at his mustaches as Gloin lays out what is being discussed.

Gimli looks to his Elf who threads his long fingers into Gimli's and they look at Gloin.

"We dinnae plan for this," Gimli says. "We dinnae think to survive the Quest for the Fellowship was seven and we were only two."

"And we thought that the Power that sent us back might pluck us forward as easily," Legolas says. "But It has not and every day it seems less likely that It will."

"So we must think of a future, changed though it be," Gimli finishes. "My heart is for the Mountain but-"

"But?!" 

"But what of the Gimli that belongs to this time?" His son shakes his head. "I ken my own mind, da. An older Dwarf with my name and fame and an Elf to walk beside him? That would be a hard seam to mine."

"I remember this time," Legolas nods his fair head. "I did not care for Dwarves or their Mountain. I counted the Elves who died in the Battle of the Five Armies very dear and I was angry. I cannot go back and there is no place for me and mine in my father's court and many who would take it ill for an Elf to dwell in Erebor."

"It seems better to me that we not return to Erebor until time has passed and tempers cooled," Gimli says. "Lord Elrond tells me that I need more healing ere I will be hale again and has invited us to Imaldris for as long as we have need."

"And you mean to bide with Elves for all your days?" Gloin accuses.

"Nay," Gimli looks at his Elf who is smiling ruefully. "Only until I am fit to travel."

"And what then?"

"King Thorin will need word of the world beyond his borders," Legolas says when Gimli falters. "Erebor did not care for the world beyond its gates until the dragon came. And not all of Sauron's work will have crumbled with his death. We may still be of service abroad."

Gloin opens his mouth to shout down the suggestion but Fíli speaks first.

"I think my uncle could make use of sharp eyes in the lands of Men and Elves," the younger Dwarf is nodding. "I will send a raven."

Gloin throws his hands up. "Will you break your father's heart, lad?"

"Never," Gimli struggles to sit up. "But it's the best thing, da. You know that and you have business that will take you back and forth. We could meet on the road. It wouldnae be farewell!" 

Gloin's shoulders slump and he gathers his boy into an embrace. He wants to argue but it is his heart that argues. His wits are beaten.

"You'll be careful," he tells his son through a thick throat. "You'll write as often as you can find a raven."

"I will," Gimli promises and Gloin has to be content with that.


End file.
